Water Under the Bridge
by Caelta
Summary: For her, love was not the sweet collision of a faltering pulse and the loss of rationalization - though it had certainly brought about those things, as well - but a plague like no other. For him, vengeance was no longer a part of his life. Sweenett.
1. Due Heat and Dreams Bittersweet

A/N: So after having had this monster of a fic haunt me for two years, I have aptly gone through phases of "gosh I hate that title" to "gosh I hate the first ten chapters," which quickly lead to "gosh why haven't I deleted it?" But, common sense won out with the little reminder that I spent practically two years of my life on this thing, and that there were people who would probably (I hope) be sad to see it go. So, if you've come across this and decided it seemed familiar, that's because you've probably read it before under the title _Passed Reflection Past Direction_...which I honestly don't know why I ever thought that worked. But regardless of whether this material is new or old to you, I sincerely hope you enjoy it, for what it's worth. Thanks!

Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Sweeney Todd or anything recognizable. Just a reasonable ability to form sentences.

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It scorched, it burned, and it sizzled at the weight of the itching tears that struggled to drip down her crimson cheeks. Nothing now could stop it; it was inevitable, inescapable…indescribable. The fiery demons that cackled around her, poking fun at her grief and licking up the skirt of her dress, seemed all for show. It was superfluous, as much as hot had turned to cold before morphing into a flat numbness as it blinded her pain.

Unfortunately, the flames inside of her clenching heart were much harder to douse. Visions of bridal veils and beachside weddings, sunset kisses and dancing before the moon, all went up in the bright orange tongues before she had time to reflect. All of it…gone, disappearing and fading away just after whooshing past her vision, much like the thick dress around her.

'We all deserve to die,' he'd said, 'even you, Mrs. Lovett, even I'. This notion hadn't failed. Sooner or later, she was to be nothing but smoke and ashes. There was nothing to save her, no one to care. The one man…There was no future in shoving the only woman alive to care into an open furnace.

The crackling around her grew to a roar in her ears, hissing back at the familiar rush of relief at her feet. A white veil of vaporous smoke wafted into her face, stinging her eyes with its ashen moisture. By the time she'd blinked away the steady hindrance, it was all too clear to her senses what had halted her physical suffering.

A tiny river swam at her feet, grazing the ragged flesh on her legs and stabbing through the numb with a smarting tinge. It didn't surprise her. The factor of surprise had worn down to a frazzling of frayed nothingness in her condition. Instead, she only splashed down through the plunging river to her knees, adding to the hectic water and pressing her forehead up against the rusty, tepid door. The oven was sure to be locked, as sure as someone considerate had managed to turn the emergency pump.

Swallowing at the burning in her throat, she pushed down a flicker of hope at the desperate thought. Surely, the only one that considerate would be Tobias. For it would never be in Mr. Sweeney Todd's temperament to forgive, forget, and repent.

Sucking in the bitter air, she pressed her ear to the rust-coated door in order to listen…to silence. Despite the flood of emotion leaking down her streaked face, curiosity peaked a sudden interest in the world within her. Where was Mr. Todd – he was in such a fury earlier, there was no room for silence in his presence – and where on Earth was Tobi?

She stood to shoulder the door, but as speculated it didn't budge. Better than sulking in being shut-in and stuck, however, she took to knocking her fists against the resounding metal. There was no answer, but a reply was far from her goal. She shoved and kicked, yelled and punched, pushed and yanked at the obstinate door before it finally gave way. When it did, the accomplishment was hardly expected; it left her to trip over the hem of the opening and fall deftly to her nose on the cold, unwelcoming floor.

The affliction of pain spread a wildfire across her raw skin, producing a groan from parched – most likely blistered – lips. She sat up in languor, feeling drained of any sort of will to control her aching muscles. What greeted her, much to her horror – not quite surprise – was a scene she wasn't likely to forget. It sent a shocking tremor up her spine, putting a stop to any move she was partial to make and instigating the flooded wells to seep out from her wide stare.

Her own gaping reflection was barely visible – singed hair, ruined dress, and running make-up – from a dark-red puddle creeping along the cobblestone's crevices. At the center of it all knelt the one man she wanted to see least and most, in a position worthy of collapse. His head was bent and shadowed, the streak of milky white in his jet-black hair stained by the blood of his victims. In his limp clutches lay the prominent object of his sentiments – something she'd never be – Lucy Barker. What caught her breath the most, however, was the glistening ruby fluid that leaked down from his neck to the floor.

Remembering almost too late to breathe, she crawled across the pungent, sticky liquid towards the motionless barber. In coming closer, she was able to make out the dripping slash across his throat, and it produced a considerable amount of emotion up through her veins. It swelled in her own throat and pushed back against her resistance to cry out, leaving her to struggle a moment in her raging agony.

"Mr. Todd, you're not dead," she pleaded. "You don't deserve that, yet."

Glancing towards the lonely razor on the floor, open and blemished by the pool in which it sat, she reached out a hand to touch the edge of his collar. Still, he remained immobile and inert, and she traced her hand along his downcast cheek in disbelief. If she didn't deserve to die, then why did he? Shaking her head at his unresponsive expression, she knew she had as much claim in his murders as he, and that she had no control over her sympathies in spite of his attempting to kill her.

Having tuned it out in her panic beforehand, she barely recognized the incessant squealing and clashing in the background. Looking up now, and rubbing away the veil over her vision, she squinted across the floor at the figure of Tobi. He was preoccupied in turning the grinder on the meat, heaving it around in a vigor as he repeated to himself the perceptible phrase "I have to turn it three times, mum, three times for good pies."

Frowning at the boy, she deduced that she had no time for his insanity. Gathering an unusually paler Sweeney Todd in her arms, she managed to lift him a little ways off the floor by stepping up and bending backwards. Slipping her arms under his, she tugged him upwards and made her way backwards, towards the staircase. His head flopped back into her shoulder and his ankles dragged the floor, forcing her to hold him tighter against the resistance.

Tobi stayed in his place as she traveled up the stairs one by one, securing Todd to herself as if he'd suddenly fade out of existence at any moment. He was unexpectedly heavy to her smarting muscles, and by the second landing she was already shaking with the expenditure. In favor of remaining conscious, she stopped to lean her back against the nearest wall, sliding down until she sat stacked against Mr. Todd like they were two playing cards in a deck. The light from the room through the door, a landing away, revealed the sickly tone that played across his skin.

"Now I know I'm in Hell," rasped the startlingly familiar voice at her side, "because _you're_ supposed to be dead."

Jumping at the cognitive words, she gasped down at the barber as he glowered up at her with a sullen kind of look. The blood from his neck bubbled up to rush down across his collar, and it provoked her to move in an action of ripping a shred of cloth from her ragged dress. He gave her a weary glare as she bent over him, elevating his head to slide the strip of fabric to the back of his neck and tie it over the browning slit.

"Mrs. Lovett," he pronounced smoothly, "…why aren't you dead?"

"Why aren't you?" she shot back, moving the knot on the cloth to the back. He made a face at the movement – painful, no doubt – and seemed to accept, for the moment, that they were both alike and alive.

Getting to her knees along the wall, Mrs. Nellie Lovett moved promptly to catch Todd as he went falling in her direction. Peering down into his skeptical expression, she pushed him up and sat once more until – to both of their discomforts – his head was fetchingly close to the edge of her lap.

"Kid can't handle a knife," Sweeney growled up at her. "Cut's too shallow…"

Feeling her brows arch up in concern for the rouge staining the cloth at his neck, Mrs. Lovett put the tip of a finger to his purple-colored lips. "That doesn't mean you couldn't die, Mr. Todd. Hush, and stop trying to put such a distress on yourself."

He glowered up with a murderous sort of intent, sending a true prickling of fear across her nerves, but she knew better than to let it show. Removing her finger from his mouth, she looked away from his piercing, black stare to tug at the edge of her dress. She could still feel his eyes on her, even when she didn't look, and it unnerved her.

If not for his unfortunate state of health, he would have more than likely tried and succeeded to kill her right then and there. As it was, he was already driving her mad – and had been, for quite some time.

"You know, Mr. Todd…there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I never meant to hurt you, when I said she'd gone. It was the change, you see…she's not the same, as surely you yourself are not."

Chancing a glance back to his face, she sighed in relief that he'd at last moved his dark gaze to the wall at her back. Unfortunately, the look he gave the poor bricks was enough to demolish the entire structure without even a spec of dust. It was so set on hatred that she had to look away again in order to remain.

"That's why I can't let you die, Mr. Todd," whispered Mrs. Lovett. "…because I… love you."

Still, he didn't even blink an eye in her direction. It cracked a small hole in her chest to see him ignore her so, but she held all that in so as to remember the words she needed. Worrying her lip until Tobi's kind song tripped through her mind, Mrs. Lovett sighed again before directing her eyes to his. As before, he paid her no attention. She drew in a deep breath of the dank air before voicing the small song, carrying her tone reverberating in echoes down the stairwell.

_Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around._

_Nothing's gonna harm you, darlin'… _

She noted the way his black eyes came to be shut halfway, and the dangerous drooping of the back of his head to her knee. In a flutter, she took his shoulder to shake it, jostling his onyx stare into focus. This time, his contempt was lessened from her, and in its place he uttered a sharp protest to keep her off.

"Please, Mr. Todd," she said, and bit her cheek at the quaver to her voice. "You've got to stay awake."

Giving her something in the way of a faint scoff, the barber shifted his head to the side to stare unrelenting in her direction. "Of course; you're making too much noise not to."

Even as he said it – nearly only a whisper – she saw just the opposite of the effect intended by his words. His eyes were already closed, hiding his malignant gaze from view, and his head tipped once again to its side. She accredited this to his amount of blood loss – severe enough to probably kill anyone else on the spot – and thought better about waiting for a while. The only thing the accretion of time achieved was his further infirmity, not his vitality. In all truth, his vitality was decreasing by the minute.

"Well, come on, Mr. T; let's get you upstairs," Mrs. Lovett said loudly. It snapped him to alert, and he narrowed his eyes on hers as she tried standing him up.

" A cut on my throat does not hinder my ability to walk, Mrs. Lovett," Sweeney grumbled.

She acknowledged this by pulling his arm over her shoulders and winding hers about his waist, escorting his orneriness up the next set of steps. He scowled at her the entire trip to the fireplace just past the main pie shop, and she rewarded his stark expression by setting him in the chair closest to the fire – a long, green number with a reclined back and scrawny feet.

His ebony surveillance was still drilling into her an unsettling sort of consternation, and she tried hard not to look at him and meet his scrutiny unless necessary. The barber's obsidian watch followed her back as Mrs. Lovett strode across the room and brought out a more proper bandaging – a cloth soaked in water and gin, heated over the fire as Sweeney glared at her every move.

Concentrating on her work instead of his eyes, she loosened the knot on the cloth around his neck and gingerly peeled it away from the abrasion to his throat. This seemed to distract his gaze at last, for he flinched away in a sudden repellence that gained him her commiseration.

"Don't touch me, woman," he snapped up at her. "Give that here."

Motioning towards the dripping cloth that she drove closer to his neck, he flashed out a hand to yank it from her grasp as Mrs. Lovett retreated backwards a step. He wrenched it so harshly from her clutches that the fabric scraped rough across her burned palms, leading her to wince at the smarting sensation and realization of how bad she really seemed to have had it.

The once so pale flesh across her legs and feet – seeing as her slippers had been immediately incinerated – had taken on a pinkish tinge, and when she looked closer at the rest of her flushed skin she was enlightened to another painful revelation. The rosy coloring came not only from the rawness of her freshly uncovered flesh, but from tiny, prickling droplets of crimson blood that peeked out from almost every pore visible. Making a less-than-satisfactory face down at a place where the red had already started to darken and scab, Mrs. Lovett bit at the inside of her cheek at the sight. All that blood – hers – was truly sickening to watch drool down across her skin knowing the misery it was likely to cause. No doubt, between her own torment and Mr. Todd's, it would be a rough night. To say it was a discomfort in the least was most likely the grandest understatement of her lifetime.

The otherwise named Sweeney Todd paid her astonished gasp no attention in his mind, reserving her concentration for pressing the gin-soaked fabric vigorously along the gash to his throat. His face was contorted into a scantly hidden grimace at each graze of the stinging fabric, and his ruby-speckled hands trembled at their work. Admiring this brave yet masochistic sort of ritual, she reasoned that it would probably do him more good than harm, anyway. That is, if he stopped trying to rip open the deleterious incision…

"Now, Mr. T, you can't be doing that right!" she almost chided. "come on, love, let's see it here."

Taking no heed at the glance of warning he sent her, she risked igniting his fleeting anger to slide her fingers down over his and grab hold of the cream-colored linen. A snarl replaced his pained expression, quivering his lips in a razor-sharp threat just short of death, but Mrs. Lovett gritted her teeth against the daunting display. If it was a matter concerning his life in her hands, then she could withstand any of his harsh words and punishments that came afterwards.

His hand just under hers, she noted, was cold. The temperature was suspicious in her perception of Mr. Todd's loss of essential fluid. Picking the bandage fabric from his grasp with a tender hand, she found relief of her itching burns in his frigid touch and just barely stopped herself from advancing to get a more widespread reprieve from the scathing sensation ablaze across her nerves. Trying hard to shake the feeling, Mrs. Lovett reached to dress his ugly wound and secure the white cloth around his stiff neck.

"Mercy, Mr. Todd, for goodness' sake relax!" she exclaimed to his smoldering expression. "You're going to kill yourself with all this raging about! Do and say whatever you want afterwards, but good Lord, please don't upset yourself so!"

Pinning the last of the fabric down, she lifted the back of her hand to his forehead. The look on his face was unchanged even after she moved to stroke the tips of her fingers down his inky black hair, and she couldn't' help the sigh that escaped her lips at his demeanor. What had she expected? After all, he was as of yet just getting over the impression of killing his wife…over _her_ lies. It was _her_ fault that Lucy was dead. Of course, there was no helping the fact that Mr. Todd was hell-bent on killing anyone to set foot in his barber shop.

She had no intention of denying her wrongdoing, but how was it her fault how he'd interpreted her words? She'd only told him that Lucy had poisoned herself, never said she died…she just left off the part about living. But here, too, her practicality strived to have legitimate reasoning for her half-truth. Lucy, as she was, had been a simple thing. Pretty, yes; she had been enviously blessed by the seraphim's beauty, but there was not a bit of wit to follow up her deserted common sense. After the affliction of arsenic, Lucy was a shell of stark-raving stupidity. The years having changed her beloved Benjamin so, he had no love to give even if he _had_ returned himself, only vengeance and cruelty.

"Why, my dear Mrs. Lovett," Sweeney ground out, "did you take me from that place after I most blatantly persisted in arresting you of your life? I should have died down there, at her side! Why do you continue to encroach upon my fated existence?"

His words seeming only to prove her thoughts, she shook her head in his direction with a growing sense of dread. It was he who deemed this condemned existence inevitable and death his fated release, not her. One for believing in control over her own life, it was why she had brought about the mess now dwelling around them, though only in part responsibility. It was her way of surviving, her way of trying to cut her own mark into the grey-sculpted statue that sat as the world's masterpiece before her eyes.

"Fate, Mr. T…?" Nellie echoed back his deduction upon his life. "If it was fate to keep you down there, then why are you alive and up here with me? It's not my fault I care about you, love. No one could stop that, now…"

Instead of retorting his thoughts across her own, he remained silent. It was slightly surprising to Mrs. Lovett, seeing as there were probably a million ways to counter what she'd said. Then again, Sweeney was never much of a talker. Usually, she was lucky to just receive the esteemed monosyllable, unless he was angry.

His black stare glittered with the light of the fire on the hearth, and Mrs. Lovett watched for a moment as he concentrated on the abyss. After a while, she became acutely aware of the weight settling itself against her limbs, and the pain that broiled up her veins. It became infinitely noticeable with each passing second, forcing her to quicken her blurring thoughts with a small shake of the head.

Whether Mr. Todd felt live dieing or not was irrelevant; and the moment, he was alive and in desperate need of a miracle should he require to stay that way. It was a miracle as it was that Tobi hadn't killed him within the first moment.

Tobi…

Sighing to herself, she finally gave in to her weakening knees to drop onto the long, chartreuse cushion at Mr. Todd's feet. Tobi, her little Tobi, had attempted to murder Sweeney Todd…and for what? Had he done it for her, seeing as he had to be the one to pull the water valve? …or had he done it out of vengeance? The last she looked, the poor boy was working away at the grinder down in the bake house. His madness seemed to be caught from the contagious affliction of driven insanity that plagued them all. For her, it was love. For Mr. Todd, it was hatred.

Doubting in the boy's awareness of his own existence, she was skeptical to believe that he would ever regard the door she'd so carelessly left ajar. She would handle that case later, after the security of Sweeney's and her own well-being. Far from reasonable distance to a mirror, Nellie could only imagine how she must have looked to the unsuspecting eye.

Scraping together her last ounce of strength, she managed to slip towards the kitchen and return with a wet rag and a pie in each hand. Mr. Todd ignored her up to the very last second upon approaching him with the watery handkerchief, and snapped up a glowering contempt when she pressed the fabric to the brown-ish stains on his stony face. He moved as if to slap her away, a sudden flare arising upon his apathetic expression, but the action was left unfinished when Mrs. Lovett took caution to head him off.

"Come, come, dear…look at all that mess over on your face. Hardly a comfort, I think. Right filthy, it is. Sit back, love; that's it, love, stay just there." He was oddly compliant to her instructions, and fell back immediately upon her request. His countenance neither changed nor lessened, but it bore a slight tolerance towards her dabbing at the sully to his cheekbones. His eyes stared endless holes through the space just before them, giving her mood a strange jittery type of discomfort as she finished her small piece of work.

Nellie smiled as bright as she could as she triumphed over the revealing of his face, but he simply stared. It proved too much even to notice her cheery grin for him, and under such resignation she dropped the façade completely to turn up a corner of her mouth in a sarcastic sort of smirk. Brushing the tip of her finger across his nose, she made another attempt to gain the favor of his attention.

"There's a face, there is. See all that blood, Mr. T?" she waved the rag under his unheeding gaze for emphasis. "What are you doing up there, dear, pumping it all out for a bath? Hello…? Mr. T, are you listening? I brought a pie, here. One of the older ones, mind you."

Slowly, Sweeney's dark orbs focused up to her, and she shifted under their blank pressure. At first, he said nothing. Taking the small, rotund pie from her outstretched fingers and pouring over it in a condescending skepticism, the barber sniffed at it once, made a face, and then returned it to her hand.

"I'm not hungry," he mumbled darkly.

"Yes you are. You will be. Come on, love, that one's healthy. Not an ounce of human flesh to be found, not at all." Pushing the tanned meat-pastry towards his unyielding lips, she waved it just under his face in a tempting manner. It felt a lot like convincing a small child to eat his vegetables, and led her to wonder if Mr. Todd, living in such constant seclusion, had ever laid eyes on such a thing as a juicy, green vegetable. "Mr. Todd…are you quite fond of asparagus?"

Squinting up from the pie to her face without lessening his obvious disgust, he didn't miss hardly a beat before answering, "No, I am not."

"I can't say I'm much for it in the way of foods, but I s'pose it's alright, love. Really, now, you should eat this. The worst pies in London are only the worst because they're good for you." She smiled cordially to his revulsion, and disguised the taste of the most terribly corrupted pie with a small display of breaking off a piece to plop it between her teeth. With enough imagination, Nellie was able to get it down with the smile still broad across her face, and took the initiative to offer the rest in the barber's direction. "See…?"

Narrowing his eyes distastefully at the pie, he grabbed it from her and, with an effort, choked it down. His stoic expression morphed into one of revulsion, like so many before him, and then to a sullen dislike as he swallowed the last of the wretched crumbs. Setting his head back against the chair, Sweeney ran a finger along the empty holster at his side where his razor should have been.

"Gin," he groused up to her.

She watched him a moment before making a reply, biting her lip and simpering down at his bleak visage. Despite his gruff mannerisms, she knew that the barber could not harm her even it he had the intention. Not physically, at least. Emotionally, he'd already done his part on her grief, but she tended not to show it.

"Now, Mr. T," Nellie chided lightly, "you know that-"

"Now, Mrs. Lovett!" he barked. His eyes shot open wide in the murderous type of ire and impatience that she'd grown to recognize, and his lips pulled back in an animalistic snarl that had her jumping to his behest. It was the insanity that she saw there in his gaze, teetering on the edge of explosion, which had struck her to move as she did. In any case, he didn't have to shout to get her to do what he wanted. If he'd simply asked her again, even without all the fuss, Mrs. Lovett had no doubt in her mind that she'd be in the same place, retrieving for him the alcohol upon his request.

Crossing into the main shop with every intention to obey his hasty command, Nellie stopped halfway as she noticed the open passage leading down to the bake house. Leaning a throbbing shoulder against the cheery wallpaper, she rubbed keen fingers over her stinging eyes and frowned into the clotting darkness that she'd dragged Mr. Todd from. Somewhere down there was Tobi, still grinding away at the meat of the barber's victims.

The thought sickened her, and she sighed at the aqua and rose-covered walls to step away from the parlor and into the dismal pie shop. Quickly, lest Sweeney be angry at the amount of time she was taking, Mrs. Lovett carved out a generous portion of gin into a small shot glass and carried both the glass and the bottle back to the hearth. Setting the tall container atop the mantle, she sat on the edge of the long chair where Mr. Todd downed the contents of the glass she offered him.

She saw the subtle bob in his throat as he gulped down three strong draughts of the gin, and watched as he polished it off with a grimace before setting the glass to the floor and looking up to her. When their eyes met, piercing black against warm chestnut, it was as if the world around them had stopped its pace to move on without them. To Nellie, the barber was the only real existence. He carved out her heart and left the scar to bleed with a simple flourish of his blade, a look as sharp as his profession. It was a painful reminder of a joyous occasion – she was alive. They were both living flesh and blood, and how ironic that Sweeney Todd, who seemed more of a bloodthirsty demon than a human, could bleed just as bright as his victims.

In a position oblivious to her internal musings, Sweeney looked away again and closed his eyes as a shadow reminiscent of sorrow cast over his brow. He fingered the empty holster at his side, and drew out a long exhalation in a sort of wistful torment. Studying this candor of appearance, Nellie picked up on the unusual trait right away. It pained her more than his harsh looks to see him this way, knowing that she could do nothing. There was only one woman he cared to hear from, now more than ever, and Mrs. Lovett would never be invited to fill that vacancy. She knew this well, and so she kept silent with the knowledge that her words would be ignored and disregarded.

Still, she could not help but to try and touch his agony, and as a child in fascination she reached out towards his porcelain features. The barber gave no hint of recognition to her gentle caress except to utter the pair of syllables "Lucy" and claw the side of the chair on which they sat, fraying small lines across the vulnerable, green fabric. She abandoned his troubled face to take up the hand damaging her furniture, and traced a pattern to his gloved knuckles. It gave her a small delight that his hand in hers was pressure enough to numb the dull burning sensation, but Mrs. Lovett knew without a doubt that it was no compliment, nor was it a need for condolence by anyone aside from his dead wife.

It sent a prickling chill across her flushed skin when his fingers released hers to belie the weight of his arm as it slipped from her grasp. The chill lasted no longer than a second, raising bumps on her flesh where the hair had been singed off, and surrendering to the greater heat of her injury. Beneath her, Sweeney lay immobile with naught but a shallow breath to disturb this posture, his expression of grief slowly dissipating to be replaced by one of a blank indifference and innocence only slumber could bring about on such a wicked man.

When his frigid temperature sacrificed its contact on her scandalous burns, Nellie felt the fever set about her nerves heighten in protest. Now that Mr. Todd would not notice, she relinquished her reservation to catch his hand in a greedy vice and push back his sordid, crimson cuffs, pressing her sanguine cheeks, once so pale, to his cool skin. The relief was sublime, leading her to believe that she'd been neglecting a greater part of her suffering.

Seeking further solace from his glacial contact, Mrs. Lovett moved to lay at his side and, forgetting his tempestuous behavior over the benefits to both, spread an arm about his waist. However much pain resulted from her widespread inflammation, Mr. Todd was sure to have no less of an ailment from his steadily dropping temperature. Therefore, she reasoned, in an equal balance to keep them both alive she had justifiable evidence to prove why she rested an ear to his chest.

It was an instant reprieve from the scorching ache, and a proportionally large wonderment to think that she was lying practically on top of her life's love. In lesser terms, it was hardly an accomplishment. Sweeney certainly didn't know, and there was no way from Heaven to Hell that he would approve of the notion if he did. But there was always room for imagination, and if she just tweaked her mind and squinted – as squinting was prone to do in its utter distortion of the visibility, leading into rather creative images – she could just picture the fantasy a perfect reality.

And there he lay, complete in his intoxicating effect upon her frazzled senses by simply opting to exist. The healthy rhythm in her ear a steady metronome to her rushing pulse, Nellie could just catch the skipping of his heart increase – if she just squinted – as she stroked the fastenings to his besmirched collar. Her breath was caught just behind her teeth as her blurred sight depicted his flawless angles and achromatic lips in such close proximity, and she hissed it all out over her dry tongue at the mere thought of his translucent skin across her own, assuaging the new burning in her careless system. What acrimony had she to face? Mr. Todd was asleep for the first time in her presence, deaf to her mute pleas and dead to the silent world that had left them behind. He could do nothing to ignite the dormant insanity that lurked beyond his ashen beauty and waxen lips.

If by leaning just forward and up, Mrs. Lovett could barely reach those unblemished, wax-carven features that were so alluring and undeniably taste his radiance. If she squinted, then she could already feel the wax melting to her tongue and taste his bitter-sweet vengeance.

Unfortunately, some treasures were best kept hidden. Always one of practicality, her pleasurable exhaustion failed to let her forget this. The enigma of a precious jewel remained only until it was examined, and if under the veil of a ruby lay nothing but a deceitful copy in its stead, then disappointment was a sure course. If even for a little longer the mystery remained, then she could be free to create whatever image she wished to place upon its charm. Expectations, she knew, were nothing but a false hope in the face of a glaring reality.

Of course, if she just squinted, allowing the dream for just a moment longer, then Mrs. Lovett was almost positive of the cool, waxen rubies that kissed a fiery trail down her terribly torrid throat.


	2. Green Finch Above an Open Trench

A/N: Well…this chapter took awhile to write, but I think it was worth it. I suppose it isn't easy putting yourself in the place of a murderous, revenge-seeking lunatic, eh? I have decided that it amuses me to write in this perspective. To those who are now reading this, I thank you for your time. Reviews are appreciated, but always optional. Cheers!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sweeney Todd, and never will. For future disclaimers, please refer to the first chapter…

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Distracting as it was, the pain wasn't what bothered him. Even the ringing in his ears, an incessant, dull pitch that throbbed in time with his headache, was tolerable. There was an undertone, something between sweet lavender and the acrid stench of burnt flesh and blood, but that, too, did not interest him enough to catch his attention.

Curiously, he was both warm and cold at the same time; two polar opposites set at different extremes on either side of his body. This, as well, did not bother him in the least. What bothered him was just that very aspect; aside from the resulting frustration, he was not bothered by any of it at all. And for him, Sweeney Todd, not to be bothered by such irritants as surrounded his senses, it was a copiously aberrant thing indeed.

Rolling towards the warmth on his left and challenging it to soak away the daring wintry temperature of the draft to his right, the barber made two striking revelations. The first informed him that he'd been lying on his back, now on his side, and the second informed him of a draining source of torment radiating from his limbs. More precisely, the torment started at his throat and worked its way down at any sudden sort of movement, agonizing his tired muscles with the temporary grating of blade to bars on the human cage.

Dragging in an odious breath and letting it out through his nose, Sweeney kept his eyes shut and struggled over the idea of a contentment of sorts. Despite the blatant evidence, it was dubiously absurd. Implausible, inconceivable, impracticable, outlandish, fantastic –

"Mr. Todd…?"

It was undeniably preposterous. That was Mrs. Lovett's voice.

Possibly of their own accord, his eyes flew open in an instant to regard the perceived cause of the contrasting warmth with disdainful execration. She was curled up where she'd once been at his side, but was now surreptitiously close to the whole of his front and had her head at his neck so that her detestable curls spread into his face.

The simple proximity of her heinous complexion, belonging to a contemptible fraud guilty of an abhorrent perjury, was enough to send chills of unadulterated loathing across the back of his neck, the front of which was working against him in agony. She was a charlatan, a palterer; a dire, recreant, grisly provocation; a deplorable, macabre leech whose beguiling deceit deserved every estrangement the treacherous world had to offer. More than that, Mrs. Lovett – dare he thing the vile name – was a reproachable villain, a murderer, who had brought upon herself his vow of reprisal. Challenge she to continue to disgrace life with her dissolute pestilence, his retribution would be her demise.

"Dear me, love, calm down. You look as if it was unbearable; it's not good for you, is what it is…Throwing a fit this early in the morning…Don't you ever just relax, Mr. T?" The baker sat up and away from him, rubbing at her tear-streaked face in a dejected fashion. She rearranged the pins in her disheveled hair with trained ease, brushing out the bronze tresses into a disorganized fan about her head. Her lips set in a slight pout as she worked at her hair with surprisingly nimble fingers, and Sweeney was acutely aware of his staring.

What an ignominy to the foul world, now so much more foul, that a woman of such depravity could be as graceful or as beautiful as his Lucy. It was only subtly noticeable, even then after all the goings on so as to deposit a fair coating of soot and sleeplessness upon her figure, and came nowhere near close to his dear wife's former elegance. Even so, it was a differing sort of charm and radiance between the two that left him struggling in the wake to determine which was what. An analogy would bring about his wife's likeness to the glorious sun, if he were to think on the subject, whilst Nellie shone with the volatile face of the silvery moon. Both, he supposed, gave light, but only one gave warmth. The other gave a consistent inconsistency.

Spotting his eyes on her, Mrs. Lovett huffed a small sigh of discontent and fell back next to him. Large, grey hemispheres peeked out from underneath her eyes and gave the impression of illness, and it led him to wonder, not out of curiosity – if sleep did not claim her, then what had she been doing all that time at his side while he lie oblivious? The idea was rather discomforting, not to mention revolting, and so he elected to keep it out-of-mind.

"What a sight we are," chuckled the baker, "with all this blood. My dress is half-gone, not that I cared for that one all so much, and your shirt is just soaked. Terrible stains, blood makes. It won't come out."

Glancing around at his tainted sleeves, he at least felt a slight conceding for her opinion. The tunic was now worse than worthless, and more than unsightly. For a moment, he debated whether or not to take it off – it was really starting to scratch, the way it had dried and stuck to his skin – but no sooner than he looked over at the woman next to him than he decided strongly against it. She was unimaginably clingy and galling without the aid of his top's removal, therefore it was all too troublesome to conceive how she would be subsequent to his cotton tunic's absence.

Mrs. Lovett went still at his side, frozen with her hands still hovering about her hair, and it instigated his copying the action to listen to the subtle noise that had been brought to his attention. From the corner of his eye, he saw the baker tilt her head to its side as if in concentration, and then as her expression morphed into disbelief.

A muted footstep fell upon the street outside, and an immediate warning flashed to mind under the wary circumstance. Mrs. Lovett, disheveled and with a ruined dress, and himself, covered in layers of blood and already looking precariously dire from the start, would not make for a pleasant welcome.

"Oh my God," Nellie exclaimed in a whisper. She hopped up from her seat in time to shut the bake house door, snatch a blanked from the nearest corner, and drape it over her shoulders to hide the condition of her injury and clothing. Looking between the door and the barber, she slapped a hand over her mouth and sank back to her former seat in a whimper. "Mr. T, someone's coming!"

The shadows of two distinct figures could be made out from their position just outside the door, and Sweeney urged himself to think faster. Hastily, he took the opportunity to rip the bloody materials on his chest over his head and stuff them just under the nearest cushion. Naturally, Mrs. Lovett's response was to gasp and gawk, but it wasn't more than he could handle when compared to being discovered by the law.

Frankly, he should not have cared what happened to himself at present except for the aspect of his poor wife; whatever happened to him, he knew he'd regret it if Lucy were to be chopped up and served as pies or cast away as constable evidence.

Turning on the frazzled woman as she sat staring between his uncovered torso and the impending threat of their being found out, he was sure that the only feeling she could arouse was a dull pity and a seething enmity. Taking her shoulders to his palms, he shoved her into the back of the chair and thrust her head to the side until she could be perceived as halfway mundane, if slightly frightened and amorous.

Peeling away his black gloves and putting them with the other contents underneath the cushion, the barber gave Nellie a malignant glare in order to keep her silent and still. She did so obsequiously, and watched him in something close to desperation as he made sure the room gave nothing away.

He was still brooding over the baker when the footsteps were heard inside, and he had just enough time to make an unpleasant face to the situation before rolling to the side as the two intruders walked into the room and noticed them. Save for a small amount of persuasive talk, it was far too late. They'd just caught him as he'd left the face of Mrs. Lovett and moved away from her sprawled form, and it was sure to be a rude scene to their unsuspecting eyes despite the reality of which they knew not.

"Oh," was all that the winded Anthony could manage at first glance. The boy at his side having no better vocal capacity, he tried again. "Mr. Todd, I'm…t-terribly sorry if we interrupted something. I'd assume you'd want us to-"

"No." Sweeney crossed the room in only a few strides to stand looming before Anthony and his companion, but soon discovered this to be a mistake. Mocking spots of resplendent white flashed over his vision, rendering his balance almost inadequate in its ability to keep him upright. Blinking furiously in a struggle for control, he grasped at the doorframe in an effort to stay himself and tried with little more success to stare down at the minimal familiarity of Anthony's short companion.

Behind him, the barber could make out the soft noise of Mrs. Lovett's dress – or what was left of it – rustling against itself and her blanket as she got up to approach him. Feeling the benign hand on his shoulder send a course of malice up along his spine, but there was no immediate justification. Mrs. Lovett dared to guide him back to the chair, and he sat in indignation next to her small frame as he tried to place the unusual affinity of the young boy's countenance.

"H-him…" murmured an alarmed voice. It was a moment before Sweeney could place the feminine tone as belonging to the horrified boy at Anthony's side, and if forced him to look back at the small boy in scrutiny. Surely, the face of a boy his age would be much more rough, and not so polished or pale. Certainly, his curvature would not be so prominent, his clothes not so baggy, or his hat so low.

This was not a boy at all, he reasoned, but quite the opposite. This was a woman, and who else but his own? This was Johanna.

"He…killed…" Johanna stopped, clinging to Anthony's sleeve in a feverish manner as her dark eyes plagued over the barber. He could see now the silken tufts of bright yellow hair that hung from the grey hat atop her precious head. The likeness to her mother was incredible – unbearable – and yet he'd noticed none of this a moment before. How was it possible?

She – his dear Johanna – might have been the only bright thing left in the whole of the great, black, merciless pit of the world. His innocent, sweet, beautiful Johanna (could he believe it?) was standing just before him, the idol of all that was left of his memorable past, and she had his eyes. He might never have gotten her name out of his mind if not for her cowering distress, but even then he couldn't help the surreal feeling it had taken on.

And that hat…! Sweeney had half a mind to rip the dismal, grey article from her blonde crown and thrust it into the fire. No disguise was worth the concealment of her delicately elegant hair of gold. It was the light of the sun itself, captured and threaded into the radiance of his daughter's hair, and it was a crime indeed to eclipse such beauty with such a plain, repellant object as the hat residing atop her head.

"What?" questioned Anthony at her side. He looked down to her with a face flushed full of concern, his liquid eyes connecting with hers as her lower lip quivered and she bit down on it. They stared long at each other, the sailor's gaze flickering once down to her flawless, rosy lips as she bit at one, and it was altogether a mawkish repugnance to the barber as he watched. Under no circumstance could he allow this bumbling simpleton of a sailor to continue to mesmerize his treasure so; she was rightfully his own, and deserved no less than what he saw fit.

"Him," repeated Johanna a little louder, and she gestured towards Sweeney. "He killed Turpin. I saw him…last night." Here, her voice became a little more frantic, almost pleading in its pitchy desperation. "He's a madman, Anthony, and a murderer! We have to get out of here; we have to go, Anthony! Let's go!"

She pulled at his sleeve, eyes trained on her rescuer in an anxious trepidation, but Anthony's attention had been diverted by her words. Scowling in mystification at the barber, he gave little advance to Johanna's indicated action in order to open his mouth, draw in a breath, and then close it again. He lingered a moment in indecision before finally making up his mind and parting his lips to speak once more.

"Mr. Todd…?" were the only words that came out, but even those did not reach their insinuated subject.

_Madman_, she'd said. _Murderer_.

All of his relief and welcome to her could not erase her fears. It was best this way; yes, it was best she knew not of their relation. In a single, treacherous moment, that unfamiliar ease which had loosened the bindings on his chest was wiped away, and in its place an ever greater weight seemed to have settled over him. Life would never – _could_ never – be the same. It was the punishment for some unforeseen line he'd crossed in his lifetime, destined to misery and misfortune. And yet he'd known this all along; how could he not? Since Lucy's death, in his mind or in reality, his foundation had crumbled.

Each word of accusation stung like a fiery needle to the heart, winding up his emotions into such a frenzy that it was all he could do to sit and be still as Mrs. Lovett attempted a few words of condolence. Yet he must sit and be still, and give nothing away. Patience…he would wait patiently until they left, and then give in to the sweet release of the explosion that lay in wait underneath his surface of cool dexterity. Johanna would never have to see him again; she would forget about him, forget about London, and go live somewhere far, far away. With a _locked_ door. She could live a happy life and be liberated from his _mad_, _murderous_ misery. Johanna would live on and forget – of course she would forget – and be not forgotten.

Later, after his radiant Johanna was gone and far, far away, he would be able to let out his caged monster. Even then, he was struggling to keep the animal behind its bars and under lock. It could take over however it wanted, and Mrs. Lovett would make an excellent victim, being so easily victimized. Veil it though she might try, the baker was all too susceptible to any amount of ill will he showed her. Simply look at her the wrong way, and she would flinch as if bitten. He couldn't even imagine the satisfaction of her wicked sorrow, seeing her broken, perhaps bleeding, with such sweet tears coursing down shadowed features. And all for him. He held the reigns; he played the puppet master who dangled his clever victims off their nightmares. Simply pluck at her strings, and he could watch her fall. Sweeney was in control. The barber could almost feel the triumph, taste the rush, and awaited the moment of explosion with baited breath.

"Mr. Todd…?" Anthony asked again, this time taking a tentative step forward.

Mrs. Lovett leaned into his side to grovel at his face, her brows coming together in a worried sort of expression. He expected she most likely worshipped the ground on which his feet stood, and imagined her reaction if he gave her way to her with the baker's adoring fancies. No doubt, it would be a repellant – though he had to admit, interesting – circumstance.

"What?" he hissed irritably.

The sailor could certainly give Mrs. Lovett a run for her money in terms of nuisances. In the least, Nellie Lovett could be worth toleration from time to time. There was nothing to stop him from admitting to her intelligence. For a single, lonely pie-baker, she did know how to run a profitable business. As long as she was supplied the proper ingredients…

"Is it true…? I mean, did you-"

"Of course he did!" piped up Mrs. Lovett. She seemed to have caught on to the fact that Anthony's companion was in fact Johanna long before Sweeney could have guessed, and it annoyed him to no end. Where was the eminent practicality and appropriation in this; she hadn't even thought to enlighten him at all! No doubt, the woman was the most despicable creature he'd ever crossed paths with.

"What else could the poor man do?" Nellie continued, her expression the very essence of sincerity. "What would you have done, in his position? Banished to the very center of Hell for a crime he didn't commit, he was! Comes home fifteen years later to find his family destroyed, he does! Who, but the ' Great and Honorable Judge Turpin' would be the culprit in this tragedy? Took the poor man's wife and molested her, he did, and took his daughter, too! Adoption. Mr. T's no madman."

Johanna looked entirely dumbstruck at the idea. Her shallow face, similar to the barber's, gave nothing away as she stared. Isolated from his sight, her thoughts were not displayed in any manner prevalent to his vigil, and she continued to look so painfully bewildered. Just next to her, Anthony was betwixt confusion and frustration at Mrs. Lovett's summary of Sweeney's life.

"The woman," spoke the barber's daughter. "…why did you kill her?"

Nellie hesitated in her reply to send him an inquisitive glance. She seemed just as bizarrely intrigued as the rest as he let nothing escape, and she sighed under the prospect of improvision. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lovett was just as swift as he gave her credit for, and knew before long exactly _what_ woman Johanna had witnessed him slaughter. For a moment, her curl-framed face revealed the onset of horror at the thought, but it was soon shoved aside for her next explanation. Why did she continue to defend him?

"My dear," said the baker, "he had no choice. Either way, he did her a grand favor. You see, she went as batty as it gets after being treated so by your judge. Not quite right in the head, she was. Wouldn't normally have thought of it, myself, but she was probably suffering a lot with all that poison on her mind. Poisoned herself, by the way. Arsenic. Mr. Todd, here, simply set her free so that she could remember herself in Heaven, poor soul."

Still, the two young teenagers, each with a look of wonderment across his face, were anything but forthcoming in their opinions. All the while, Johanna seemed rooted to the floor as if she'd simply become a part of the room's décor – to her father, she was pretty enough to accomplish this feat – while Anthony looked down to her, perhaps for confirmation. In her blank, shadowed face, he was sure to find none.

"He's…my real father?" whispered the girl. By now, she was a mix of delight and consternation, leaning into the sailor's doubtful side with a skeptical edge to her radiant cheeks.

Had not the treacherous miscreant now hovering about his side in satisfaction not presently relayed the circumstance, he would have contradicted this piece of knowledge. Having the floor stolen right from under him was daringly unnerving, especially now. He did not find the sense of uneasiness all too familiar, and that proved to perturb him further.

Lucky for her, Sweeney found that Mrs. Lovett seemed to be making slightly more sense than usual. She was practical and appropriate, yes – something he'd grown accustomed to – but never so bold and never before so intuitive as she was just then. Fortune being in her favor, the barber was able to let Nellie's impetuousness slide by the wayside to concentrate upon her actual words – something he did very little.

Biased was her explanation, but true was her intent. It was in a rationality that his lovely wife would have suffered from the near-fatal toxin that afflicted her. In a way, Mrs. Lovett was absolutely right. He'd probably done poor Lucy a grand favor. Though he hated to admit it, poking about where one didn't belong and tripping around screeching the name of the local social services and public welfare official was not a terribly good pointer towards sanity.

It was a good sign that she had recognized him, but far too late. It seemed that they were almost ill-fated to be together.

But whose fault had all of this havoc been? Fate could not receive all of the blame when such accusation should be reserved also for a certain heron-faced judge. Who, as well, had it been to set the authorities on him and banish him to the grisly Australia? To molest his beautiful treasure, Lucy, and abuse her until she took measures as drastic as poison? To stead away – "adopt" they called it – his only daughter and abuse her much as her mother? To distract his attention from his wife's beautiful face and panic him into slitting her precious throat?

Indeed, the only thing Turpin had done right was to live long enough to scare Mrs. Lovett into screaming. If not for this strange lapse of misfortune, he would have killed who he now knew to be Johanna.

…or should it be Nellie to receive the credit for having the audacity to scream? She could have remained silent. The judge was known to be an obstinate man; it didn't surprise him in the least that his adversary had clung to life so.

Sweeney was vaguely aware of a couple of voices that surrounded him, but he was no longer listening. He'd drunk his fill of Johanna's sweet beauty, and she was too terribly beautiful for his unsightly presence. And yet he would be tolerated, for Anthony was just as unworthy as he, but much less tolerable. The boy had outlived his usefulness in the purpose of dear Johanna's rescue.

A pair of slender, sun-kissed arms dressed in white cuffs startled him from his thoughts as suddenly as they appeared, winding about his neck and shoulders in a light, warm embrace. He clenched his teeth together in grim disapproval, tense and all too ready to snap at the culprit of the intrusion, until he saw who the culprit was.

The barber flinched back as Johanna leaned in to press her mother's full, pink lips to the top of his left cheek, but was beyond escape. In a fluttering moment, she was already across the room under Anthony's affectionate gawping, intertwining her fingers in his and sliding out of the building altogether. Before he could even protest, his daughter was gone into the street at the heels of her adoring rescuer.

How had she managed that?

Sweeney stared at the doorframe where Johanna had disappeared, loathe to ask but curious nonetheless. His oblivious musings had led him to miss the conclusion to the former conversation, so befuddling his perception on how his daughter had gone from skepticism to affection in the same hour. Just yesterday, he'd been threatening her life. And why was she leaving?

He failed to perceive the new tinge of warmth on his shoulders as Mrs. Lovett's uncertain grasp, made so by her perilous injury. Instead, he shut his eyes on the dull colors in the room laid out before him and breathed heavily into the thick atmosphere. Somehow, he found this less troubling than before.

At long last, it was all over. The exception was that he knew better than to believe this. He still had the duty of avenging his wife's death, now that Turpin, though the main perpetrator, was not the only one worthy of accusation. He still had to liberate Johanna from her new captor in engagement. He still had to figure out what on Earth he was going to do with the rest of his miserable life.

For now, however, he would do none of this. To take some of Mrs. Lovett's failed advice, he would use it in the more appropriate circumstance and _wait_. He would wait, he would heal, and he would think out how to go about his list of to-dos. He had Turpin, and for the moment, it was all that mattered. It was enough.

Sweeney's hand ached to feel the smooth, metallic edge of his untarnished companion, to bring it to his face and examine the shining luster, but he extinguished this in an instant. _Wait_. Temptation was a useless effort when he needed to relax. _Patience_.

Turpin was slain, and it was enough. Unusually, the barber felt his patience melt into something more – just what, he had yet to figure out – and opened his eyes in an instant to grin, with slight malice, flat-out towards the woman at his shoulder. Even the realization of her being propped up against his side could not lessen the augustness of his nebulous disposition. In the extent of his aberrant temperament, he even allowed the baker to be in such a position that would normally grant her his ire, taking her wrist in an action of good humor and simpering wearily at her exceedingly exuberant expression.

"I got the judge," he said quite simply, still smiling.

Mrs. Lovett's receiving smirk grew wide at his words, beaming up at him just inches from his won amicable grin. She looked as one mesmerized in idolatry to his odd amusement, shifting closer – perhaps unconsciously – until their exhaling breaths collided. He didn't mind it so much as think it particularly inappropriate of her customary felicitous manner, and knew it went without saying that his own actions were rather obtuse.

"You certainly did," Nellie breathed.

The sentiment didn't look half as out-of-place on her expression as it did his, he was sure. In fact, it looked natural for her shaded lips to be tugged upwards and her pallid complexion fluid with animosity. She stood out from the rest of the stodgy room, illuminating the space about her in her warmth and fervor.

When he realized how ridiculous he looked compared to the baker, he let his grin fall, and with it, hers. Mrs. Lovett looked a little crestfallen once he'd let the familial level drop, but assumed her appropriate position in an instant to sit a good two feet apart from his bare side. Sweeney was apt to wonder just why she did this, given the information of her mental attachment to him, instead of seizing her opportunity as it came. The thought dominated its counterparts, and stopped any logic of motion.

Suppose she respected his requirements of space and opinion? It wasn't so hard to believe, except it contradicted his prepossessing deductions of her character. By now, he would have thought he'd be fighting for peace of mind over her obnoxious, petty adoration. Where had he been wrong? Nellie was the very essence of enervation and the secondary cause to his ungrateful misery. Why was she acting in such an admirable manner?

Unless she really wasn't such an intentional antecedent of his calamity.

It was a dubiously far-fetched conception, almost laughable, but something in it made him wonder. Mrs. Lovett had always been so very practical to the extent of intuition, but never disloyal. She'd done everything he'd asked of her – which wasn't much – without complaint, and blatantly wore her heart on her sleeve regarding her feelings towards him.

Love, he'd found, was a very ignorant concept – sometimes even fleeting or fickle, but never disloyal. He'd never meant to hurt Lucy…God, if he'd only known! Perhaps, slightly understandably, Mrs. Lovett was in a way the same.

Her intentions seemed wholly iniquitous if considered in correlation to poor Lucy's death, but apart from ripping down his life the minute he set foot in London again, she'd had a point. As much as he wanted to blame, curse, and press a nonexistent razor to Nellie's traitorous throat, he frowned over the fact that she needn't have bothered. Either way, Lucy would not have been the same, as surely he was not.

Again, the only villain in that act was Judge Turpin, who was now a convenient heap of a bloodless corpse on the floor of the cellar.

Indeed, it had been all for Lucy. The vengeance was, as described by many, sweet. It was sweeter than the best-selling pies in London, made purely on the victims of his juicy revenge. Which brought him to quite a different concept altogether.

Sweeney knew all too well exactly why he'd been so willing to slice up the populous of London to serve as a meal for the rest, but Mrs. Lovett…? Out of all of her practicality, he couldn't make sense of it. Killing wasn't practical, it was distraught. And delirium was the farthest thing from practicality he could imagine.

So why had she done it? Out of her love, perhaps; out of her loyalty. That was the most reasonable explanation. It undeniably bothered him to know that what he'd so passionately commit for his lost wife, Mrs. Lovett would do the same for him. It meant one thing in particular certainty; Nellie loved him with the same vigor and capacity that his own long-dead heart had loved his dear Lucy.

It meant that she would have the same sort of guilt as he, if his ridiculous deductions were truthful, for betraying someone she loved so robustly. She would not be able to even remotely allow herself forgiveness for such a terrible act, as he knew well. The feeling was all too painful, even for someone as close to the grave as he was.

Strangely, the baker seemed to act as if his own betrayal to her had not happened at all. Her distress was evident, but she voiced not a word. For him, it was too may betrayals in the same day as to last a lifetime, but Mrs. Lovett acted as if she'd already forgiven him.

Surely, he did not want nor require her forgiveness…but it felt oddly impertinent to be holding a grudge against someone who may or may not have intended to harm him – most likely not according to evidence – and who had already awarded him amnesty. It was something he could not even grant himself; how could he give it to Nellie if their transgressions were so similar? In accordance, how could she do something he could not?

Or, if Mrs. Lovett had in fact no pardoned herself, then they were both as good as hypocrites.

No, he would not forgive her. No doubt, she was a bloody wonder indeed. Whether she had meant any type of ill will through her half-truths or not, the woman should have been dead. Neither of them, as a matter of fact, should even have been breathing in that very moment.

In a way, the barber knew that he was already dead. Perhaps not physically – not yet, anyway – but his soul had flown the coop somewhere between Australia and Lucy's death. He was simply another one of the shadows haunting the streets of London, a vengeful ghost whose sole purpose was to kill in order to feel alive. It was the exact reason why he'd agreed to aid Mrs. Lovett's business in such a manner. There couldn't have been a better excuse out of the world's supply.

The predicament ailing his mind, however, contradicted this. It was irrefutably portentous and singularly marvelous, yes, to experience such a rush of feeling, a flooding of the senses that left him in a hazy sort of state wanting more and calculating meticulously how to get it. Usually, the only moment of such excitement was just after bloodshed, but herein lay his perplexion.

Perchance it was simply the thoughts connecting to his grand victory over his main adversary, but it seemed ultimately unexplained that his breath should come so short, or his own pointless life fluid should pulse such an exuberance through his suddenly enhanced mind. In a word, it was sublime as always, though he had not a clue as to why it was occurring.

The atmosphere was static, and through the icy temperature of his deprived skin he felt a heat arise to burn through his slipping logic in an instant. The intensity was far too concentrated, the fluttering in his core too explosive, and whatever enwrapped his shoulders was extensively chill in contrast to this suffocation. Surely, he was going to burst. For all the world, the vivid, tingling ache throughout his bones was something he wished fervently would either amplify or stop. It taunted him by lingering so, never giving him the death he deserved. For, surely, he would die; but, oh, what a timely and extravagantly luscious death it would be. The vivacity, just out of reach, was a torment that he savored in breathless suffering.

Whatever it was, it was beyond the normal circumstance. This feeling was like waves crashing one after the other onto his smothered senses, and it was every bit as wondrous and yet far past the satisfaction of his everyday kill. What was it? There could have been nothing like it in the entirety of the universe, yet it seemed so familiar.

Sweeney tried to swallow, and found a parched, bitterness on his tongue along with a lump in his throat. Every sense was on fire, as if it was not Mrs. Lovett that had been thrust into the oven but he, and yet the threat of such death left him feeling more alive than death itself had done before. The warm blood of his patron's callow corpses could not institute such a viscosity of buoyancy as this; it could not compare to such weightless vitality. Of some unfathomable and nameless grounds, the ungoverned perception ran rampant within its raucous and extrinsic improvidence to bring about a single verdict.

Doubtless, he was incontrovertibly alive. However nondescript, it was curative to his anguish and chafing to his callous death. He was more than alive, living beyond life's limits, but he could not deem a single culprit responsible.

Enamored being the woman at his side, she broke past his insufferable ardor with a palm of ice set gingerly against a shoulder. The barber exhaled the air he'd held captive to snap a dizzying glance to her face, aimed slightly too low, and tried for a sound of intimidating question. Adversely, the tone intended sounded more towards a throaty whimper that incremented Nellie's solicitude at his circumstance. Her eyebrows pushed together at this uncharacteristic noise, and she moved her touch to trace ice sickles up the back of his neck.

With a clinging sense of reservation, Sweeney was barely capable of halting himself before dragging her frosted caress to the frame of his face in an act of relief from the torrid heat. Instead, he took her frigid wrist in an effort to remove her hand from his bare skin and was rewarded by a second hand at his forehead with the first twined mercilessly through his leaden fingers.

Shutting his eyes in resignation, he vowed to bring about the quirky woman's demise the very minute he came in reach of a window of opportunity. If her reasoning was anywhere near to his, then she would be thankful. There was no way to be certain in the aspect – for who knew what Mrs. Lovett was really thinking beyond her incessant babble – but he knew that they each deserved the same out of their misfortune.

It was not necessarily the baker's fault as much as it wasn't his that life had been equally cruel to them both. Redemption or salvation, he supposed, could now only be brought about by death's reign.

"Are you alright, Mr. T?" queried Mrs. Lovett with more than subtle concern. "Haven't you been listening at all?"

Nodding once to both inquiries posed, the barber tried vehemently to quell the munificent palpitation that pummeled and eroded his thought. His head throbbed with alien delight at each beat of the heart and stroke of Nellie's thumb across his sultry countenance that pressed wintry alleviation in mollifying circles to the side of his face. Though it did little for the hostile feeling, her touch was useful in ebbing the heat that resulted.

Fiend though she might still be, she was infinitely sufferable if only to disperse his swelling discomfort. Unfortunately, her proximity had just the opposite effect on his foreign fever of garish excitement. Prompting a strange mix of vigor and traditional loathing through his searing veins, the coarse shudder that left him went all but unnoticed to his agitation.

"No, you haven't," lamented Mrs. Lovett. "You haven't heard one word I've said. Say, Mr. T – you hear me? –, you shouldn't sit around without a top. You're freezing! What's more, I've been thinking, and…" Here, she trailed off, and saved him the strife of forcibly removing her probing fingers to take them away herself. She sat with her fists stuffed in her lap, gazing forlorn at her badly singed heels.

The vitality dissipating to a tolerable level in the absence of her skin across his, Sweeney grasped at his thoughts in order to form a decent response. A simple "what" would not suffice. He required information, and the only way to get it was in comprehensible speech.

"It's still night?" he asked. It sounded like a statement.

Blinking up at him as if this query was unexpected in some way, the baker gave him a chaste smile. "Never listen, do you? Ah, well…for a guess, I'd say it was on into the morning. Seemed that way, with all that talk of sailing to France. 'Course, they won't be going for another couple of days…what was it, something about green linnets? Sounds a bit exciting, doesn't it? You know, I always thought it'd be rather nice to see the different cultures, don't you think, Mr. T? Get away from dirty, old London…Do you know where France is, Mr. Todd? Never actually seen a map, myself. Suppose it's close? We could go there, you and me…notwithstanding anywhere else that's closer. Anything's better than here, I guess. Though I'd prefer someplace a bit – what's it called? – tropical, wouldn't you? Someplace nice and warm…sunny, where it wouldn't be so grey or rainy or snowy. What do you think?"

Irritated, the barber conceded that he'd missed more than Johanna's affection in his lack of attention. In a couple of days, his dear Johanna would be gone, off with the blundering Anthony and out of his life forever. If only to preserve her from the filth of the world that awaited her, he would not allow it. No such vagrant sailor that happed along at inconvenient intervals would be able to steal away such a grand marvel. Johanna was far above him, above Sweeney himself, and Anthony was to be disposed of by any means applicable.

Dragging out a weary sigh in his ear, Mrs. Lovett glanced up to him with slight apprehension. "Mr. T…? Can I ask you a question?"

He was not beyond sending her a withering glance. Perchance fate had it all planned out from the start. The barber was never meant to die at his wife's side on the floor of Nellie's bake house because he had to live in order to ensure hers and Anthony's last breath. Assuredly, he would do just that.

"What…?" Sweeney mumbled.

The baker had a pondering expression cast over her face upon sliding to her feet, and it remained as she supplied his shoulders with the blanket that had hung over her frame. Leaving no interval for his protest, she coaxed him to his inattentive feet and led him by the arm to the next room through a short, oaken door.

When the obstruction to his vision was removed via the turning of a silver knob, the first thing that met his vague stare was a grand, neatly-made bed draped in a rich, velvety rouge color. His gaze drifted down to the tangles of various pieces of jewelry masking her dresser top, and it seemed the rest of the room was a mass of contradiction to its center piece. Odds and ends littered the floor until there was hardly a place to stand, but Mrs. Lovett maneuvered her way about the homely mess with wondrous grace to push him absently towards the bed.

"I was just wondering, love…Does Mr. Sweeney Todd happen to have an intermediary sort of name? You know, such as Eleanor Almena Lovett."

Carefully, he looked at her and fell to the edge of her bed in thought. Out of primary impatience and a creeping exhaustion, he was tempted to tell her "no" and deny any request of labels. In any case, it would have been the more reasonable action. Therefore, since it was only fitting, his mind rebelled from the normal course of action to focus on a more appropriate response to her curiosity.

Surprising even a part of himself, the barber was apt to blurt out the first name that came to mind. The baker, standing with a hand on her hip and her frizzing curls tipping into a lopsided fashion, spared him the small time to raise her eyebrows in question at his spontaneous decision.

"Lorne," he uttered slowly, now avoiding her calculating eye. "It should be Lorne."

He could sense the impending "why" lingering over the room like the first layer of a dark storm, but the query was never put to words. In lieu of such interrogation, Nellie took her place next to him at the edge of her crimson quilt and hummed her voice of uncertain approval into a winded exhalation. Her eyes remained frozen to her lap, her fingers furling around the auburn tresses that fell to her neck in an empty kind of motion.

"Sweeney Lorne Todd," she murmured suspiciously. Her tone landed somewhere between chiding and musing, curling her shaded lips upwards in a radiant smirk that morphed into a small, girlish bout of giggling. "Well, can't deny it does have a sort of ring to it."

Creeping dauntingly nearer, she pulled part of the frayed blanket across her back to take the opportunity to lean in closer. Thankfully, she allowed a few sparing boundaries to be untouched. Most inclined to take to the opposite direction, he stayed in the throeful position with indefinitely less enthusiasm than the woman that was undoubtedly enjoying herself at his leisure.

"Horrendous," he agreed.

Seeing the disfavor in his dour composition, Nellie backed away to struggle for balance on unsteady feet as she stood. With her back to him, she tottered towards the door in a slump that cast over her porcelain shoulders, untouched by the destructive flames he'd attempted to feed her to. The baker's despondency was grossly egregious to his fleeting glance, so much as to send to acids in his stomach churning in revulsion, even as she turned to endow his scowl with one of her effulgent – though decided and grittingly factitious – smiles.

Even in duplicity, it looked abysmally eminent to what it would have looked like gracing his own features.

"Don't worry about me, love, I'll sleep outside," said Mrs. Lovett in false cheer. "Sweet dreams, Mr. T."


	3. Final Goodbye and Truth of a Lie

A/N: So, mostly, I already have this typed up and just need to double-space the paragraphs before posting…which is why I get to update so fast. I'd update one after the other if I didn't think it'd be too weird. I'm still looking at the summary and trying to fiddle with it, but I guess I have room to critique since I'm the writer. I'm supposing that most of you would have already gotten your copies of Breaking Dawn and have your nose stuck in them without even glancing at this poor website, but if not, then I appreciate it. As for me, I just got mine the day before yesterday, and I'm loving it. Muse really is a wonderful band…

--

As far as exhaustion went, nothing good could come of it. Though her mind tried in desperation to portray that she was not at all tired, there was no fooling anyone. With one small glimpse in the mirror to arrange her impossible tangles into a more suitable position, Nellie knew without a doubt that she was as good as a licked rat down in the sewers below the bake house.

Having lain physically drained with a reeling imagination almost the entirety of the last few hours before daybreak, the baker decided with execrable restlessness that there would be no more sleep. It was a wonder she'd fit in a mere two hours in the given circumstance, seeing as every time she closed her eyes they would appear again. At every dreary blink of the eye, demons danced before her vision in a mocking choreography, intending to burn through her delicate skin with every flaming glare.

He seemed exceedingly innocent in his fashion, charming her with that rare smile, but she would not be lured into another false security. The man had tried to kill her once, and though it split her every heartfelt instinct to label him untrustworthy, she knew that Mr. Todd would not hesitate to finish his act. In her eyes, it was only a matter of time before he tried.

Undoubtedly, he loathed her every fiber. What was she to him but a filthy liar, condemnable in her treason? The sense of hurt, of utter heartbreak and indignation was festering just below her bleak expression in the candor of the mirror.

She sighed; Sweeney would not stand to hear her side of the accusations. Not once would he stop to ponder her labor over his misgivings or her pain over his blame. She was as unimposing as always, her plain face grotesque, her hair unbecoming, her curves unshapely, her skin too pale, and her mood ill-favored. Compared to the fetching yellow of Lucy's impeccable waving cascade, her bronze maelstrom spoke little of her wit in correspondence to the other's lack thereof.

In a way, it was infuriating how beauty, a simple alluring to the eyes, could preside so over a good head and good intentions. Though the envy that quaked in her blood felt wrong, almost incriminating, the baker did not try to halt its course. Perfect, wit-less Lucy, the light of London in sanity and the cheap filth without, was more honorable than a true heart. For the alive to envy the dead, and with such passion, it was pitiable.

Selling herself out for a little beat around the bush for even the most corroded coin of hint of food, Todd's little scrap had been reduced to anything but virtuous in his absence. She could not be accused when lunacy was rampant, but it was none but her own fault that her mind had been afflicted so. She hadn't even had the faith to wait not even a month, unlike Nellie. For all the world, they were the Devil's advocates for reason and sensibility, and when Mrs. Lovett hid away the barber's razors and hushed the fool into the cupboard, what was the first thing the nit was to do but screech about the shop in time to earn passage to bedlam?

And yet Sweeney worshipped her as a monk to a holy shrine, ignored her madness for his memory, and denounced Nellie for his wife's state. Not for a mere second did he consider that perhaps, not for the first time, she was just trying to help him.

Admittedly, the half-truth idea hadn't worked as well as she'd hoped, but the main purpose was not to horde him in selfish greed all to herself as the barber assuredly thought. Lucy was not the same. With what she'd become, it would only have pained her Mr. Todd to see his wife in such a poor circumstance. Couldn't he see that it would never have been the way he wanted it, even if he'd been informed from the start? Things could never have been the same; Lucy was too far-gone, and had loved _Benjamin_, no less.

This new man, with new morals, was foreign in every aspect except the lingering ghost of some sort of feeling towards Lucy. In all truth, Mrs. Lovett wasn't too sure what it was.

Drudging through the mess of her bedroom, she cringed over the sick feeling in her limbs to sit haphazardly at a place just beside an uncharacteristic lump in the center of her quilt. For all it was worth, she didn't see herself all hot with blaming Sweeney for his human mistakes.

"Morning, love. Right lucky you are, to have survived that gash…should really see a doctor, you know. That's not what I wanted to say, though. I figured you should at least know, now you've mostly seen it all, that Lucy… Well, I'm sorry, Mr. T. She was a pretty thing, but wasted. I don't know if you wanted to hear it, but she didn't wait for you. When she poisoned herself, it was less'n a month after you were gone. When they came for your things a few months later, I…couldn't stop her." Nellie poked at the immobile knot twisted up in her linens and dragged down the edge of a sheet to touch a hand to his pallid cheek, quite aware that she was talking to a sleeping man. His breath was even, his lips parted in a blank frown, and it induced a wavering smile from out of her own lips. "She landed herself in the asylum. They took Johanna. I couldn't do nothing but watch, Mr. Todd, but I swear if they'd set one foot near that…Well, no need to fret about that, I suppose. That's when I hid them razors of yours. I knew you'd come back, Mr. T, I just knew it, I…! Of course…then, I still thought you'd be coming back Ben, if you don't mind my saying. Oh, but she wasn't the same, Mr. T, she just wasn't, I swear it! If you'd have seen her with that bottle, making all that fuss…what a sight, she was. Didn't even know her own name, poor thing. And with the way she was out in those streets, lifting up her skirts for any's a blind fool that comes along and trys on generosity…you wouldn't believe me. It wasn't meant to be, love. I couldn't tell you, I just couldn't. …wish I had, of course, but…ah, well. She's a bright fool in Heaven, now."

Skirting around the corner of her bed, Mrs. Lovett leaned across the small expanse to brush her lips to the barber's unresponsive cheek, straighten, and stagger to the door in less-than-graceful strides. He paid her no heed, lost in some far-off dream of Lucy no doubt, but it was gratifying to see that – unlike her – he was finally getting some rest.

"Breakfast in a while, love; I just have to go down and look for Tobias a moment. Shouldn't be long," she said, now halfway out the short door. Turning on a final vantage point, she allowed her brief smile to take over her features, smoothing his name over her tongue like sugared toffee. "I did it because I love you, dear. You know that, though…Sweeney."

For one of her monumental understatements, she couldn't be all too sure if he knew it or not. Of course, the barber could apprehend her love for him, but did he know just _how_ much she loved him? Did he see Lucy out there, slaving away at carrying out crime for him in such utmost precision? Somehow, she doubted it.

Stocking the gin left on the mantle in the night back to its proper place in the cupboard, Mrs. Lovett took to dusting off imaginary wrinkles from her black, navy-licked dress and looking about the room in preparation for the search she was to conduct. Though she questioned whether or not Tobi would have run off again, it bothered her that he'd appeared to have gone quite mad the last time in her presence. The poor boy didn't deserve all of this tragedy, especially at his young age. Pirelli would have been enough as it was without finding an abominable deed of slaughter in his own home.

Setting out the ingredients she needed for future reference, Nellie quickly found that she was going to have to carry out a special trip to the market if she wanted any breakfast at all. After the presiding memory of last night, the baker was equally as fearful of cooking up a fleshy pie as she was of approaching the cavernous oven down in the bake house. Even within a five yard radius, in the absence of the malignancy that had been the catalyst, it would be an uncomfortable stance.

Taking a hearty swig of the gin just before her, for good measure, the baker sighed out the fiery quenching of her dry thirst in impatience. Sooner or later – sooner rather than later – she was going to have to travel down all those steps and face the ghost of her unreasonable fear. Whatever it had been, Mrs. Lovett was at terms with herself over the matter; she was not afraid of ghosts. After all, Mr. Todd himself was a phantom both in figurative meaning and appearances.

Not to mention that age-old habit of showing up out of nowhere…

Spinning lightly on her heel with a soft tune to her lips in false cheer, Mrs. Lovett stopped short to pick out a small black beetle that nestled itself between her rolling pin and butcher knife. She crushed it against her thumb and forefinger with considerable ease, wiping a gloved hand across a nearby rag and feigning a chuckle in defense against the action; where had that blasted little knave come from?

Stepping away from the counter in a sudden haste towards the hall and bake house doors, Nellie found her movement restricted by a petulant obstruction to her path. Her head snapped back on her neck as her eyes went wide with wonder, her voice emitting a minute gasp to break the heavy silence as she stared unmoving into the callous face of Sweeney Todd.

"Mr. Todd…!" Nellie exclaimed in a splintered breath. She was helpless to his uncanny expression, looming a mere cork-shot from her own in all of his bleak indifference, and felt herself backing away instead of leaning forth as she wished. For all she knew, it could have been a ploy for an attempt on her life. She didn't know. Decidedly, it was an uncomfortable essence of feeling.

Trust, though Mrs. Lovett was loathe to admit it, was an extremely slippery ground for their relationship. It was not an option.

"Mrs. Lovett," the barber ejected icily. "Do you propose to search for the boy alone?"

Was that a question or an offer? It sounded more than a little ridiculous for Sweeney to be opting out his aid to her, especially after his making known quite clearly the hate he harbored for her. Furthering her confusion in the prospect, it wasn't all that comforting to have to be in such close vicinity to both Mr. Todd and the furnace he'd thrust her inside.

Hitting the cabinetry that was positioned at her back halted her backwards shuffle, inducing a subtle, frozen consistency about the room. Neither the baker nor the barber moved, each confined to his own thoughts and Mrs. Lovett particularly irresolute on her mind.

There was no way for him to have known her course of action; she'd barely taken a step in the direction of the hallway. Disinclined to settle on the idea that Mr. Todd knew her perhaps a little too well – he hardly took the time to know or remember knowing her at all – Nellie felt unnerved by the prospect of there being only one way for her barber to know in certainty. He was never one to actually pay her attention, much less give the time of day to listen to what she was saying, and so Mrs. Lovett was left no choice but to deem this one of the fleetingly rare and grandly remarkable cases.

…but why did one of those singularly peculiar cases have to happen just _now?_

"Mr. T, you were awake!" cried Nellie. "Why on Earth didn't you say something, love?!"

Unsurprisingly, Sweeney was not forthcoming in the slightest by fixing her reaction in a glare and stalking away towards the bake house doors. He paused upon reaching them, looking around at her when she did not follow, and after a moment of expectance, he thrust open the doors in a manner just shy of violence.

"Come, my _pet_," he ground out. "Let us look for that mongrel of yours."

Out of all that she'd said, the barber had surely heard every word. Why he hadn't felt the need to interrupt was beyond her, but naturally, Mr. Todd created more of an enigma than she was capable of comprehending. He'd heard everything right down to the love confession, not that she hadn't confessed before, and not that he hadn't already known, yet he couldn't even gather the resolve to care.

Perchance he'd simply favor not to mention it, but such noteworthy things remaining unspoken hinted towards negligence and not regard towards her abashment or his distress. On the whole, the barber most likely thought very little of her unless in abhorrence.

As much as she wished she could, she couldn't blame him. Undoubtedly, Mrs. Lovett had made a terrible mess by neglecting to tell Sweeney of his wife. He had every right to overact and commit such blasphemy as trying to take her fragile life.

With a fearful nod, Nellie stayed her faltering emotion with a quick, deep sigh and walked briskly to Mr. Todd's side at the head of the passage of stairs leading downwards towards the previous night's nightmare of events. There seemed to be many more steps than she remembered as together they traversed the stairwell's length, because her mind was reeling with apprehension with every foot moved towards the end of their journey. Aghast at how she ever could have dragged the barber all that way, the concept procured anew the suggestion of Mr. Todd's injury in her mind, prompting her to snatch a hasty glance sideways at his crudely bandaged throat.

He didn't seem to be in any sort of pain, but with a gash that new, and a cut so close to his life, Mrs. Lovett felt sure that he should very well be bed-ridden and running a fever that very moment. Her glance turned into staring as the baker tried, unsuccessfully, to pick out any sign of his suffering. He did not acknowledge this beyond a remote huff at the wall, and the silence grew into an uncomfortable one the minute she realized she was gawking.

To make matters worse on her part, the man was still without a suitable covering for his naked shoulders as he shoved apart the second set of iron doors that accompanied the staircase. It bothered her, to say the least, that he had such little regard for his condition.

Sliding past the thick doors and into the daunting shadows cast by the lack of light, Nellie crept inadvertently closer to the barber as she squinted across the dark room. For what little protection he could provide in a state of having threatened her life in such recency, the movement was not comforting in the least except to provide some sort of point of direction.

"Tobi!" Sweeney called out sharply. The unanticipated discordance starting her wits in a scatter, Mrs. Lovett jumped as she perused the unrelenting darkness. He took a swing to the left, calling out once again for the heedfully concealed boy and seemingly determined not to wait for Nellie as she scrambled after him.

Thinking it appropriate to follow suit, the baker had opened her mouth to lull the poor boy from whatever corner he'd hid himself away in, but she stopped abruptly upon hitting – nearly tripping over – something solid that connected with the toe of her boot. It was heavy to her step, showing great resistance to her strength and sounding out a light rustle in the blind gloaming.

Mr. Todd appeared to have found out this discovery as well, because he'd halted his calls for Tobi and become unusually still for their circumstance. She could hear the barber making some slight move at her side, but her eyes did not entrust her to the details of this exchange. Instead, she was left to wonder at the soft, leaden weight at her feet.

Her first thought was that it was Tobi, that they'd found him at last. It was accompanied by worry over his unresponsive nature, but was soon followed by yet another realization about the weight; it was not Tobi at all. If it were, then by now, surely Mr. Todd would have said something. Indeed, the barber said nothing at all for quite some time before uttering that woeful word which sparked her recognition.

"Lucy," he said. Had he no mind for anything else? "Lucy" again, and with such ragged passion and tormented care. Dare she to imagine her own name spoken in such a voice; it would be too incredible, suspect to the dubious absurdity of a dream. "Lucy," it came softer, underlying an undeniable tribulation that struck a fast chord of stitching throe across her mind in that dark place, so close.

It wasn't enough that she'd risked everything she had to lose for this mad; she could have tried harder. The fire in her veins burned a smarting fever across her tremulous nerves, hot with the knowledge that she could have done so much more. If Nellie wanted him to be truly happy, if she were to be content with her own life, it would mean coming to terms with the fact that his only happiness resided in a lost cause, a cause that she'd only helped to further lose.

If she'd tried only a little harder, the fiery malignancy told her, then Lucy would still be alive. It was certainly not enough that she'd risked her shop and in turn her life to hide and care for this man's nit of a bride. In thinking such, Mrs. Lovett could undoubtedly have kept Lucy from such poisons as arsenic if she'd only watched her a tad closer. In all truth, she'd _wanted_ Lucy to take the poison, said the pain; yes, she'd wished nothing less of death to reach the pretty woman's fickle little heart. It was exactly why she could have tried so much harder to stop Lucy from taking her sanity; now, the consequences were overbearing.

_Never_ had she foreseen, _never_ had she wanted, _never_ had she even cared what would happen, or how it jeopardized the happiness and life of her love. Now, she could clearly and truthfully say that it would be better to see Benjamin, Sweeney, of whoever he was alive and happy with his wife, even if that wife was not her. Now, however, it was far too late to even have mattered.

Clamping a hand over her quivering lips, the baker tried in desperation to control the waver presented in her voice as she muffled the words between her fingers, the salted, watery regret burning trails of liquid fire down her colorless cheeks.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. T!"

Turning away from him in the darkness, Nellie was glad of only one thing: it was dark enough to hide her penitent tears from the man whom she was least prone to show weakness. Forsooth, he already thought of her in worse terms than she could fathom without her added encumberment of rueful infirmity. In that way, the absence of illumination was like a small blessing. In another, it was devastatingly ruinous to their pursuit of the endearing Tobias Ragg.

Whirling at the slightest shuffle, the baker held her breath against a disreputable, shuddering sniffle to cast an unhelpful surveillance about the dark room and listen. Nothing moved out of the ordinary so long as she was to attention, but the second Nellie switched her focus away from the small noise another came. With it, an even more raucous cacophony was sure to follow.

"AAA-HAAgrmph-urr…!" screeched a shrill voice. Unexpected as it was, Mrs. Lovett couldn't help but to flinch at the sonorous clamor. Subsequent to the yell, there was a loud clash – of what, she couldn't tell – and a low grunt that played out at her feet somewhere to the left and then abruptly to the right.

"Mr. Todd…?" she tried meekly. It recovered no answer, and a swollen panic greeted her stomach with a knot that twisted itself tighter at every moment of silence. "Mr. T…? Sweeney…?! Sweeney Todd…!"

Side-stepping the visible shadows to tread about the expanse of the floor in something close to a wild frenzy, the baker felt along the wall to the oven. The cool, crusted surface was a relief to her calloused fingertips, and she clung to the edge a moment – for fear of what might happen if she didn't – before skirting around to drag at the first article that made its way into her clutches. It was unusually heavy, as if it might be holding fast to the floor despite her efforts, but upon the discovery of one of the barber's earlier victims Mrs. Lovett was eager to gather the corpse to thrust into the cold oven atop the drenched wood.

With fumbling fingers, she floundered to strike a fire and then blew on it in an expertise not lacking in anxiety. It took too long to catch and longer still to make a suitable flare on the grey-patched hem of the faceless person's clothing. In her impatience, Mrs. Lovett let the rusted vault door remain hanging open on its cringing hinges. The incandescence was not very bright – not yet – but it cast an eerie, unstable glow of dim orange about the echoing room. The lighting made her skin crawl as she swept her gaze across the floor in search of either missing party in her favor, and she spared not even a second glance for the pale cadaver that had been ignited at her back.

Neither Tobi or Mr. Todd were easily found, but a shot rustling snapped her view towards the farthest corner. There, the baker was given the impression that there existed nothing but a mass tangle of limbs connected by a single glint of silver. Whichever hand was in possession of it, the silver struck instant reconnaissance through her shock.

Jumping to the aid of either object of her affections left her in the project to assist neither, when the time came, as she soon found out. She rushed to stand over the pair in a shrill criticism, but neither paid her even the slightest of attention, and she became infuriatingly stuck. Move to help one, and the other suffered. Attempt to separate them, and face even worse consequences yet. Tobi, having the newest excuse of insanity may have been mad, but Sweeney certainly wasn't all that much better. Without a doubt, they could – and would, if given the chance – kill each other.

Hanging in limbo between either assailant's throats was the razor; it shimmered with a wicked sort of beauty in the darting light and quivered as both Mr. Todd and Tobi struggled over its possession. Planted on the boy's partly-concealed face was a snarling grimace that squinted in his wild eyes, striking a disconcerting astoundment across her immobile limbs. Even at the heart of weakness, the barber was surely ten times stronger than Tobi.

So then why was that smiling flash of metal drawing perceptibly closer to his damaged neck?

In a moment's furor, Sweeney had thrown his besetting attacker to the dust at his side and had fallen mercilessly on top of him with his blade, but the weapon never struck as Mrs. Lovett sprung to invade upon his stroke. He didn't seem to notice as her hand cut back his assault, and neither did Tobi's persevering halt to her interference. They remained, breathing raggedly as the razor seared a biting slash into her palm.

She held back the yelp that threatened to escape her tight-pressed lips at the painful sensation coursing over her tender flesh, made so by a fire's heat, and clung tighter to Mr. Todd's glistering instrument. Gritting her teeth at the blade gnawing over her skin, she constricted her every muscle in a strain to pull the metallic object from both pernicious clutches, sending a tickling branch of warmth down her wrist.

"Stop it!" cried the baker, knowing full well that neither would listen. Her voice came out weak to her ears, thin and wavering with a touch of the sudden emotion clutching at her airway. It surprised even her, masking over her vision in a watery haze that simply returned with every blink attempted to rid herself of the feeling.

At last, she had managed to wrest the glittering weapon from their dangerous intentions, but it was so unanticipated that the mere force of strength she'd kept sent her reeling backwards when they'd let go. Releasing her quarry in an instant, Nellie let out a small shriek as she tumbled backward alongside the barber, having Tobi leap at his chest in an effort to strangle the life from his struggling.

Too easily, Sweeney took the boy and rolled until they were pressing down on Mrs. Lovett, flattening what little air she had in reserve from her lungs in an instant. He brought an elbow to Tobi's head in a graceless act that left the boy limp at their sides, and then flung him in a heap to the swallowing darkness.

She whimpered. It was nearly a nonexistent sound, but it was enough to distract the man on top of her. He visibly froze, and then snapped a glare to her liquid expression beneath him. The desired effect took place almost instantly; she cringed. That effect, however, was ephemeral.

For all the killer intent put into his penetrating stare, Nellie just couldn't bring herself to feel such fear. Common sense told her she should, and that she should be making all haste to get away from him, but she couldn't.

His face hovered mere increments above her own, stony features darkened in disapproval and ashen lips parted in the beginnings of a snarl. Such proximity, whether in threat of death or not, already had her heart racing at ear-level. Her palm stung, her back ached, and her eyes watered to dribble moist streams downwards across her flustered cheeks, but for all the world she felt as if she'd been charmed into unrivaled euphoria by a lingering demon. He was so close, breathing down across her forehead with the orange light dancing over his pale skin, distorting the illusion so that if she just squinted…

"Where's Lucy?" snapped the barber. He disregarded her crippled bearing to pressure her further into the floor, aiding in the detriment to her smarting shoulder-blades, and cast her a feral look before climbing to his feet at her side. She watched him, biting a lip to hold back a defaced lament, as he stood overbearing above her tremulous frame.

Gathering the resolve to stand as well, she came up next to him with less than half his balance, fingering the cut across her hand and scrutinizing the floor. With a little confusion, she sent him a sidelong glance before surveying the room in detail. Only three bodies littered the floor: that of her Tobi, the judge, and the beadle. Realizing the truth in his query, she wondered at the same question herself before taking to searching. Where was Lucy?

Halfway through rummaging at the dusty stones, however, it came to her. Snatching a fearful glance towards the tinted flames pouring heat from the furnace, Nellie felt her stomach turn over and squeeze upwards in an instant of shrill panic. Swaying backwards into the wall behind her, she felt her head spinning and the world with it as Mr. Todd followed her line of vision to the fire and became very still.

Taking a sequence of quick, short breaths to steady the screeching in her ears to a subdued noise of slight bearability, Mrs. Lovett swallowed the sour taste at the back of her tongue and watched as the barber walked towards the oven as if transfixed. He approached it in slow, determined strides and then hung onto the open door to hunch his shoulders and peer down at the consumed effulgence that was his wife. For a long moment, no one moved.

Ploddingly, he turned to face and move towards her, his visage portraying nothing aside from some deep train of thought. Each step, taken in deliberate caution, kept her nerves dancing on edge and her back against the wall as he stooped halfway to collect his razor before continuing his taunting pace forward. This time, his fingers stroked over the engraved surface of his closed, silver instrument as he walked, and his dark eyes glowered a void through her chest where her heart ached in time to the throbbing of her head.

"Oh, Mr. T," she choked, shaking her head in asinine denial. "I just grabbed the first thing that came to reach. I didn't know it was her! I thought it was one of the others: that judge, or Beadle Bamford! I…I'm…"

He was standing erect before her now, his razor in its place in the holster at his hip, and he jerked his head to the side in the semblance of a grin to reach out with both arms and yank her from the protection of the wall. Every sense she possessed was telling her that it was a guise, a trap, yet she could do nothing but move her feet in the spinning waltz that swept them closer to the open oven.

Her worst nightmare replaying as reality and masquerading as her sweetest dream, and yet she couldn't even bring herself to struggle against the barber's vice around her waist. Melting in his arms like butter, she was infuriated at herself for doing nothing, even when she knew better. They danced closer to the hungry flames and she felt that nauseating sickness return, but continued to move in tandem with his flowing steps and stared up at his feigned expression, mesmerized as he leaned in closer.

"How appropriate, my pet," he hissed. It carried a sort of malignancy that prickled her skin, but the very essence of his voice in her ear and his breath on her neck succeeded in raising gooseflesh along her arms and a chill down her spine.

Spinning in a wide circle towards the furnace, she felt her feet begin to stumble over his haste and her own fearful grieving. Pulling her closer, Sweeney dragged a hand along her shoulder to clutch at her arm, thrusting her outwards and raising a hand, she assumed, to slap her in some form. She looked away abruptly, scrunching up her nose in expectance of the stinging hit. Still, she didn't even bother trying to fight him. It disgusted her.

When the offense never struck and the pain didn't set in, Nellie began to wonder. Chancing to look up at the barber, she found him with his hand still in the air, loosened to an afterthought, stock-still and transfixed at something just below her right ear. Belatedly, his eyes traveled back up towards his ready hand, fixing the sparkling rouge he found there in a deep scowl.

A little bemused herself, it threw her off-guard considerably when Mr. Todd lunged at her right hand in a sudden urgency. Twisting her wrist in a constricting grip, he locked it before his face and narrowed dark eyes upon the oozing gash that penetrated her flesh. It was long and deep, and the new awareness instigated a small cringe as she continued to try and disregard the wound. It was insult-upon-injury for Sweeney to huff as he did at the cut like she deserved it, but he kept holding onto her dripping arm as sure as she knew that she did, in fact, deserve every pain given.

At least, that crazed light in his gaze had flickered out with his visible ire, and instead of persisting in his attempt on her life, he seemed content enough to trudge forward to the spot at her side. A new realization appeared to have taken hold, although he did well to hide it. Leaning up against the tepid surface of the oven, she watched and saw the barber do the same, pressing a cheek to the rusted metal in order to stare down into the wavering flames that licked away at his wife.

In a strange sort of ease, Mrs. Lovett allowed her eyes to slide shut against the current of warmth that entered her limbs from the oven's fire. Sighing at the lingering, restless dejection, she noted with a growing delectation that Mr. Todd had not let her hand slip completely from his grasp in a diverted attention. Though it would never be as she fancied, a despotic optimism fought for survival to tell her that it wasn't exactly as she thought, either.

Threading her fingers more thoroughly through his own, she fit his larger hand into a solacing – to whom, she knew not – squeeze before tracing a path up the small of his back to give the junction between his shoulder-blades a couple of absent pats in mind of turning to leave. He didn't move to stop her when she did, grousing down at the fire in thought of only God-knew-what, and she took that opportunity to bend over a motionless Tobi and try to coax him onto his back.

Rolling him over at the shoulders, the baker followed a dark stain down his chin in disapproval and tried her best to scrub it off. Tousling his unkempt hair and straightening, Nellie pondered over his unruly appearance for a moment preceding her decision. Doing her part to brush the dust from his clothes, it was the least she could do for him. On coming up again, she looked upon him sadly with the knowledge that she wouldn't be able to carry him up the stairs in her condition, and she might not be around to see him awaken.

It was fully on trust that she would be able to leave her boy and Mr. Todd alone together for even an instant, and seeing as trust wasn't such a presiding element in her terms with the barber, then she was wary to leave them. Sweeney would without a doubt be less destructive in the absence of his silver "friends", an immense relief on her part, but she could neither accomplish nor explain this action. Therefore, she was left with one remaining option.

"Mr. Todd, would you bring Tobi upstairs for me, love? I'm going off to the market for a shake – won't take long."

She needed air. Not even a concern for Tobi or her Sweeney could bring her to think otherwise. In a manner of justification, Mrs. Lovett allowed that if she returned to find either harmed in any way further from existing injuries, then there would be consequence. Castigation of what type she had yet to figure out, seeing as a "no breakfast" discipline was hardly a penalty at all for the barber. She already had to go to such lengths as to practically force-feed him, as it was.

"Yes, of course," Sweeney provided with little inflection. He remained to tarry over the contents of the torrid furnace, staring as if in a hypnotic sort of state, but said little after that small reassurance. Nellie was apt to think he'd barely even processed what she'd told him to do. Though she still could not find reason to blame him, there would be reason enough to connect the end of her rolling pin to his thoughtless mind if he stood in the same place upon her arrival.

Stooping to stroke a thumb down Tobi's smudged cheek, Mrs. Lovett stood straight for the last time to look upon the contour of Mr. Todd's back against the orange demons crackling at his front. He was silent and removed, as usual, and moved naught except to blink or breathe. For all she saw, he looked dead already, from the start. Letting out an audible harrumph, she turned on a heel towards the exit.

"You didn't sleep," observed the barber, putting a quiet distinction between his statement and a question. It put a halt to her path for the door almost instantaneously, prompting her to spin once more until she was once again facing his glaring back.

She hoped dearly that he'd find the sense to put on a shirt in her absence.

Shifting her weight expectantly, she blinked over his immobile posture. He made no move to say more. After waiting a few beats too late, Nellie broke the stiff silence with a statement of her own, hushed in her surprise.

"I couldn't," the baker proclaimed with a matter-of-fact tilt of the head and raise of the eyebrows. "Nightmares."

He seemed satisfied with this answer, because for the whole of the amount of time she waited, he said nothing. Indeed, she waited longer than necessary – just to be sure. When Mrs. Lovett finally deemed it safe to continue in her act of leaving, she sighed at the barber and shook her head. He seemed to know everything even without paying the least bit of attention to any of it. Stepping to the door again, she felt the bitter taste in her mouth return.

Nellie had made it almost halfway to her destination without interference when he took it upon himself to interrupt her once more with another intercepting remark. This time, she not only stopped, but stumbled, as his words stole away a split-second's breath.

"I had a dream about you." He said it without an ounce of feeling, as if it meant nothing, persuading her to believe that it could be a falsehood. But why lie over something so trivial…? She wanted desperately to question him further, but something else – fear, perhaps, of what he might say – forced her into submission.

Backing towards her exit in the hopes that he might say something more, she took deliberately slow steps in order to catch any last phrase. But he said nothing. With his back turned, he was dauntingly unreadable and grippingly cold.

Slipping around the edge of the doorway's frame, Mrs. Lovett stopped to bear witness to his movement at long last. Stepping back to swing the protesting door of the oven shut with a reverberating clang, he leaned an elbow up against its surface and stared after the baker.

"Goodbye," Sweeney murmured. It was nothing but a musing to himself, but it left Nellie wondering whether he meant the farewell for her or for Lucy.


	4. In Her Wake, His Murderous Mistake

A/N: Well…I suppose I should apologize for the slight lateness of this chapter, but life got in the way - and my internet decided that it didn't like my position of authority over it. Ah, well. I might be a bit delayed in saying that I despise the beginning chapter, but that's only because of believability. Also, I'm not going to attempt the accent in their speech…mostly, 'cause it sounds funny to me when they're being serious. Other than that, I think my story just might not totally fail…according to my standards. Anywayz, cheers! The review button loves you!

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"What is _that_?"

Pulling at the cuffs on his white, button-down top in an effort to lessen the suffocation embedded in the temperature, Mr. Todd gestured accusingly towards the basket a harried Mrs. Lovett brought through the door. It had appeared normal enough at first glance, but his attention was pricked into focus when he caught the checkered covering actually _moving_.

Sparing a glance towards the baker's frazzled physiognomy, he noted that, despite her injury, she looked to be in a better condition. The fresh air, in the least, seemed to have done her some good in spite of what was said about keeping recouping people locked under their covers with the curtains drawn. Her cheeks, once so blotchy under the strain of deplorable tears, were now flushed with the nippy mist in the air as it clung about her figure.

Setting the basket down with a healthy smile, Nellie braced herself against the counter to favor him in her cheery disposition. Her curls shone strikingly red under the light from the window in their slight dampness, and the barber was loathe to admit that she looked quite the sight.

A despicable harpy and a tittering shrew, but a becoming sight nonetheless.

Dare he admit it, but Sweeney found himself actually in a manner of being ridiculously pleased that she had returned. His thoughts had been nothing but festering, laborious resentments in that uncomfortable silence ensuing her departure and his vigil over Tobi, and he was quick to rid himself of it.

After all, whose but Mrs. Nellie Lovett's dear face kept popping up among all the rest? That shattered, streaked expression adorned at his approach, and that courageous, stubborn glint at his meaning to harm her…it did nothing to lighten his mood. The woman was a ghastly crow, but as he'd known, as undeserved as he. Somehow, with the murder of the judge and that entire part of his existence put to an abrupt end, it felt as if the mere enthrallment had increased ten-fold, if the enmity had not.

She should have been dead, there was no doubt about that. Leave would be taken to solve that misdemeanor on the first occasion presented.

The crisp scent of wet rain winded into his perception and hung about his nose as Mrs. Lovett leaned forward enough to wave a hand in his face, and his eyes caught onto and followed the white blur that was the bandage about the jagged cut in her palm. Vision locked onto the object, he felt his brows come together in a subtle perplexion over the misplaced feeling that lingered in his throat.

"Hello…?" drawled a dismayed baker in impatience, snapping his focus into the present where she stood before him, poised with a hand on her hip. "Oh, for goodness' sake, Mr. T, are you listening?! It's a cat, I said, a cat! Do you want breakfast or not?!"

Blinking up from the crude bandage to her flustered countenance, he frowned in her direction before turning his attention to the basket at her feet. Indeed, now that he had a closer look he could tell that the wriggling lump underneath the checkered cloth had ears and a tail, and that said tail was sticking out of the top with a motion of whipping back and forth.

Claws gripped the forefront of the wicker container as a whiskered face poked out of an opening in the material to stare up at him with large, green-flecked eyes. Sniffing at the end of his pants' leg, the small animal fixed itself on strutting about his feet and purring. He scoffed.

"Oh, look it, Mr. T; he likes you!" pointed out Mrs. Lovett. The barber didn't share her enthusiasm.

With a distracting itch creeping up the back of his throat and the impending urge to gulp at the air in order to relieve the leaden pressure building up behind his temples, Sweeney Todd made the quick decision that he did _not_ like cats. At all.

"Mrs. Lovett," he struggled to push out in holding back the pressure. "Why a cat?" As soon as he said it, the strange scratching sensation traveled downward to block off his throat just as another spasm jolted upwards to get out. It resulted in a halted lurch of the airways, carrying out his voice alongside it in a sharp cough. He sniffed.

"Cover your mouth when you sneeze, dear," Nellie put forth. She ran a hand along his shoulder in what should have been a soothing motion, had he been anyone else, and glanced over that shoulder in an act of trepidation. "I thought Tobi might like a cat. Found the bugger hanging about the market. Where is the poor boy, anyway?"

Taking in the fine creases that adorned her delicate frown in a moment's glance, the barber drew away from her to flick his eyes at the fireplace in the next room. She followed the direction with a liquid gaze, lips parting in a breath of vacillation, before brushing past his arm in a gentle motion to tread towards her beloved Tobi. It was that benign touch, reviving the familiarity of a certain buoyant vitality, that led him to turn and pursue Nellie's wavering trail to the boy at the hearth.

"Has he woken up yet…?" the baker breathed. She bent over Tobi's still figure with a subtle pout in her expression, snatching a second's look up to see his answer, and fretted over a lump in the small boy's unkempt nest of hair.

Put on the alert by a sharp mewling at his feet, Sweeney glowered to the tabby pawing at his ankle and shook his head in the negative. The cat continued to squeak up at him after Mrs. Lovett's audible sigh, and it tilted his tiny head to the side in uncanny curiosity to stare at him. When he tried to ignore it, saucer-sized emeralds boring into the side of his face, it determined itself into acquiring his attention by digging eight jagged claws through his skin.

"Keep this blasted animal away from me," he grimaced, plucking the beast from his leg by its scruff and thrusting it towards the door. It landed on all fours with its ears pulled back in a display of menace, showing its fangs with a wretched hiss that vowed revenge on his injustice. Not to be outdone, the barber took the opportunity to hiss back at it with just as much rancor, sneering venomously.

When Mrs. Lovett looked up to bear witness to the malignant contest, she clucked her tongue at the pair and set a fist against her hip, but couldn't keep the smile from her somber expression. The smile that flawlessly matched her fair visage with wondrous allure…the very same smile that brightened her sleepless, disheveled appearance – if only momentarily…that exact smile that had beguiled him into trust a few months prior, even if her lies _did_ have some sort of validity.

"It can't be helped if he likes you, now," Nellie smirked. "That was a right cruel thing to do to the thing."

Appalled by the garrulous woman's defense, he snapped a glare at her beaming impertinence. "The bloody cat tried to hurt me."

Although it awarded some satisfaction to see her visible throe, he found it did not satiate his need near as much as he imagined to see her smile vanish so quickly. He wondered at the cause, likening it to the fact that nothing could sate him quite so much as Turpin's death, but in the end it seemed an empty persuasion. Before he could seek out the true culprit, however, his thoughts were forced to an abrupt halt by an awed squealing. It came out rather girlish on her part, more surprised than joyous, but it proved to distract him all the same. Irritably, he switched his gaze to Mrs. Lovett and the half-conscious boy at her side.

"Mrs. Lovett, mum," raved Tobi in a whisper. "Where is he? Don't listen to him! He made you do it, I know he did! Where is he?!" He swiveled around wildly, wide awake, until he caught sight of the barber only yards away. Making as if to launch himself at Sweeney with naught but his hands, the boy was stopped short by a set of lace covered fingers that cuffed his cheek and pulled him back by the arm.

Laboring to keep young Tobias in one spot, Nellie sent a pleading flash of the eyes to Mr. Todd before strapping her arms around the boy's sides and catching hold of his fierce expression in a motherly embrace that bolstered him against her bosom. She kept an unrivaled clutch at the back of his head, threading slender fingers through his disorder of hair, and as Sweeney watched she bent forward to murmur a string of indistinguishable solaces against his scalp.

"There, now," sulked the baker. Lifting her head, she smiled a striking refulgence – though entirely false – into the calmed face of her loyal helper. "What's all this about? Where is who? Don't go raging off at poor Mr. Todd, now, love; what's he done, eh?"

Though he could hear her invariably well from such a minimal distance, Mrs. Lovett made a show of leaning closer to whisper – rather loudly – into her shop boy's ready ear so as to shield her words from the barber. Of course, he picked up on every breath, but he let her continue to believe in her deception by taking no action and remaining still in his stiff position.

"Besides," Nellie murmured, "you shouldn't go scaring him off. Who knows when he'll be back, eh? It's the first time he's been down in ages! Best enjoy it while it lasts, and feed the both of you before you pass on out of starvation." Slightly louder, the baker inclined her chin to speak openly. "Come on, Tobi dear, let's shake off that bad dream of yours. I found something you might like at the market this morning."

The barber could see the puzzlement shining across the young boy's face as he travailed to make sense of this new proclamation in his scattered mind. He seemed to be grasping at the straws of sanity when he gawked across at Mr. Todd before returning his large eyes to his caregiver and back. For certain, Ragg had seen enough, but Mrs. Lovett's impromptu "dream" scenario seemed a brilliant mask.

_Dear, Lustrous_ Mrs. Lovett…she seemed to always be there when he needed her. _Always_. Especially when he _didn't_ need her…like a bothersome prick in the finger. Her verbose mien and long-winded talk might have become a sociable backdrop to his modern existence, due to the emptiness he faced in those few moments of solitude in her absence. It was an unlikely thing to actually _miss_ her incessant babble, but somehow, he'd found it threateningly stark to be devoid of Nellie's flowery, auspicious discourse and coddling.

It was an eccentric thing, for one of such air-headed talk to be so cerebral. On more than one instance he could account for her discerning intellect, and though it was anything but easy to admit, Sweeney had to come to terms with the fact that she was by far more erudite than his late wife. After all, the baker's acumen outmatched that of many men of even a higher social standing. Together, they might have been capable of overthrowing the whole of London with but simple cunning.

In actuality, Nellie was an extravagantly unique member of her breed. Out of her penury, the baker was able of fathom an excessive amount of intellect over a purer, wealthier woman such as the lovely Lucy. She, not unlike all other women, would have been taught the finesse of etiquette and the methodical system of conception proposing that the female was a useless creature in anything apart from domestic skills, pleasure-bearing, and child-bearing. From all this, Mrs. Lovett had a will enough to prove every generalization about her kind wrong in an instant.

Doubtless, she was more a man than her bloke of a husband had been. Albert Lovett…the name sent a coarse loathing across his itching nerves. For the short time Benjamin had known him, it had been in distaste that Eleanor had ever agreed to marry the simpleton. Perhaps she'd never agreed at all. It seemed a grand possibility regarding her sentiments towards himself, but didn't explain her fond reconnaissance of the man.

The past, being the tricky measure that it was, failed to let him forget the fact that the troublesome Nellie Lovett, formerly Nellie Whett, had been there long before the fair Lucy. Not that he'd noticed her all that much beyond a small friendship, but her presence had almost always been a part of his existence. And he hadn't minded it half as much then as he did now…

"Say, what should we name the dear, hmm…?" rang out the baker's genteel voice.

Snapping his attention to her contemplative posture, Sweeney noted the hideous, rumbling purr emanating from the tomcat bundled up in Tobi's welcoming arms and vowed to keep away from the beast at all costs. Undoubtedly, it was out to get him; it was perceptible through the jade slits that glowered in his direction from their elevated position.

The corners of her lips pulled downwards in a pout, Nellie cast her eye over him in a warm gesture, almost covetous if not for its pensive edge. She altered her stance to stir at her dress, drawing attention to its navy pattern and billowy depths, fringed in a dark-colored lace. It brushed gingerly along the floor as the baker approached him, and as he admired the soft, hugging material he soon found his gaze aimed just shy of her neckline at her attaining proximity.

Quickly, the barber switched his enlarging perspective to her face in time to catch the masked amusement behind the odd look she sent him.

"Filth," spat Mr. Todd in answer to Nellie's earlier query. "Detestable Filth."

If it was to change the subject from such an improper matter, he could tolerate the secondary look she was giving him, not all that different from the first. He could have kicked himself for allowing such foolishness to occur – a mistake that could have been avoided altogether – or, for that matter, hindered his vision by ripping his greedy eyes from their places under his brow. Any damage to his vision, however, would certainly hamper his ability to see Mrs. Lovett's wondrous beauty…as she died at his hand.

Such a moment would be the height of his senses' elevation.

"Oh, Mr. Todd," exclaimed the baker in a tone of strong disapproval that didn't take all that well to his mood. "That's not a very nice thing to say! He's just a humble cat, love, he never meant any harm. Relax, Mr. T; it's do you some good."

'Relax' was the least of what was on his mind in being led to a chair near the fireplace. With the lingering touch of the baker's careful hands set against his shoulders, it infuriated his mood to have yet another spasmodic pressure leveling up just at his nose. It returned at his attempts to brush it off or hold it back, and the dappled cat let out a startled yowl when he brought out the harsh growl into a sleeve.

As Tobias rattled off various names in the corner, cradling the monstrosity as if it were his treasure, Mrs. Lovett took to hovering over the barber in a troublesome concern. She reached to press the back of her laced knuckles to his forehead, hesitating as if he'd swat away the hand, and again his eyes focused down upon the white bandaging wrapped over her palm. It trudged a cautious circle about his temples, and withdrew following a throaty sigh.

"Are you sure you're alright, love?" Nellie asked. Her words washed a prickling frost over his spine in their loving murmur, sending his mind into a flurry of disgust. "You seem a little chill, but that's to be expected, I suppose. It's the sneezing, though…you could be coming down with something, or…Mr. Todd, do you know if you're allergic to anything, love?"

Her plaguing eyes searched him as she settled the bandaged hand atop his own, and her delicate curls tickled the edges of his face as she leaned in to scrutinize him. Lines across her forehead displayed her sense of impatient disarray when he did not immediately answer, and she reached up with her other hand to try and pin down the more rebellious tufts of his sable tangles.

As she did so, supplying him with the rather lucid scent of floral lavender, it occurred to him that the baker was fretting over him just as much as she had Tobi, who was currently occupied by repeating his selected name to his furry prize. Her sweeping hands found their ways to the dies of his face, where her chestnut eyes portrayed her veneration in a chaste glance of what he thought to be a driven rapacity, and then her hands were gone.

In a single, deft blink Mrs. Lovett was across the room, hovering about her endearing shop-boy with her hands at her sides and fervent gaze unfocused. She took the cat from the boy's arms in a swift motion, and as he watched, brought the haired monstrosity closer until it was twitching its whiskers at him just under his nose.

The speckled tomcat flicked an ear in annoyance, green eyes squinted up at him wryly in a look of pure vengeance. Its tail lashed upwards, whipping across his face in a declaration of war, and Sweeney felt it upset a tingling itch on the furthest part of the roof of his mouth. He clenched his teeth at the sensation, feeling the corners of his eyes become saturated with a wetness at the building strain, and dragged his vision upwards to a more prepossessing sight than he would have imagined – in comparison to the demonic tabby.

Stroking absently down the cat's fluffy back, Nellie scratched behind one of its ears in an amused manner, and – to the barber's repugnance – it began to purr. The sound was like ripping thread, hopelessly redundant and maddeningly loud. All the while, the furry devil smirked up at him in some sort of taunt, as if it had something he did not and he was missing out.

The itch, too, grew into an intolerable throb that jerked at the inside of his throat. Swallowing past it, Sweeney tried vainly to keep it back, and in the process was rewarded by the jagged pattern of breath that it forced.

"Hold your nose, love," said Mrs. Lovett sincerely. She nodded satisfactorily, the beginnings of a smile fringing on her lips, and set the equally satiated tomcat on the floor at her feet. When she came back up, letting out a whoosh of breath to his failed compliance of her suggestion, the baker took it upon herself to resolve his predicament.

With a delicate, slender finger held just below his nose and an affectionate pair of fond, dark eyes set on dancing over his reaction, soaking up every small motion with the enthusiasm of a sponge, the barber felt his suffering begin to lessen. The irritancy faded at the floating touch of her tepid fingers pressing into the sides of his neck, and then disappeared altogether at their moving to his shoulders.

Rather abruptly, Mrs. Lovett once again withdrew herself from his presence, but this time, a grin festered on her pallid lips. She drank up his posture in an instant, looking passionate for more, but kept her distance.

"You're allergic to cats, Mr. T," stated the baker. By the end of the sentence, she was dissolved into a hapless mirth that had her staggering over him and tripping on her own toes in a scenic fashion. Somehow, though he couldn't say the same for her balance, she managed to retain some of her grace within the clumsy endeavor.

Even as she fell, inhaling in a sharp gasp that put an immediate halt to her well-deserved elation, her frazzled curls fell about her face in all the right places and her elaborate dress flew up just enough to reveal candy-striped stockings. The gawping expression she gave him in reference to her flawless landing – striking center in his unwelcoming lap with her knees swung over the side of the chair – was adroit with the rest of her tremulous frame. It was almost picturesque; her fist gripping the edge of his collar slowly released the material to wind around his rigid neck as her awe dissolved into a delighted beacon.

"My apologies, dearie," Nellie breathed, though it was all too obvious to both that she was anything but regretful. Her chest rose and fell with vigorous anticipation of his nonexistent reaction, and when at last she deemed that he would do nothing but clench his fists and avoid her gaze – for that's what he did, aside from grinding his tight-set jaw – then she crossed her red-striped ankles and sat back into his elbow.

He could feel her every movement down to the blink of an eye, batting her long lashes against his neck where her head now rested against his shoulder. Her feet bounced to a rhythm that played only in her head until she began to hum – soft at first, and then in a melodious volume – too close to his ear for comfort. Sweeney felt her breath slide past his skin as she sang aloud now in some obscure, blithe measure, and he cringed at the fingertips that traced down the back of his neck.

"Say, what do you want for breakfast, Mr. T?" Nellie wondered, interrupting her own song with the thought. She raised her head to look into his face almost expectantly, and when he gave no reply she huffed at him in order to reposition her crown of brilliant auburn ringlets at the crook of his neck.

In all truth, it wasn't uncomfortable except to have her jubilant song so close in his ear. Now that she'd stopped, it seemed reasonable that her position would fit his so well. She beseeched his impulse to lean away from her affection with an arm about his neck, quite agreeably so, and a quiet sigh.

Glancing to her at the biting exhalation, the barber saw disappointment harbored there, on her cordial gaze, in that small instant before she looked back up at him with a crooked smile. She knew he would prefer her gone, and without a doubt, he knew she was right.

Out of all his unfathomable protest to her prattling in his ear and her diffident poise, he found – not lacking in frustration – that he simply couldn't make the words to communicate to the baker to leave. Every aspect of the situation shrieked at him to tell her to get up and go away, and yet the proper sentence refused to form in his mind. The words evaded him, and the longer he sat trying to pull them out of the air, the more at ease Mrs. Lovett became.

Moments passed, and Mr. Todd was only vaguely aware of Tobi's makeshift game in the corner, involving a lone piece of fringe and his beloved cat. He only became acutely cognizant of Nellie's outré reticence in increments, surfacing from his pursuit of words to turn his attention on her seemingly untroubled figure. She spoke not a word, still as a corpse and snug in his presence with her head lax against his shoulder. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Mrs. Lovett had not slept all that much the night prior.

For the second time that morning since the instance in the bake-house, Sweeney took note of the grey shade that sketched itself below her bright eyes, now in the process of fluttering shut. It extended from the corners of her long, dark lashes, giving the impression of an overall weariness of both mind and body that dragged her into a fitful state of discomfort and sleeplessness despite her exhaustion. She was tired; in being tired of life itself, the barber exalted to do her a favor in such a regard.

Yet, it Nellie went to sleep just as she was, then her limitations would greatly restrict his movement. Sooner or later, her little shop-boy was bound to notice, and with the boy's newly-acquired instability, it would be best not to put him in such a case.

She was fading fast, and as he watched her, the rush of her breath across his cheek deepened and slowed. It was another moment before the barber realized that she was truly asleep, and in the discovery he wanted to groan. Now, he was trapped. It would be indubitably discourteous to try and wake her now that she finally received the rest she deserved, though he asked himself: what did he care?

Admittedly, he couldn't claim to that much more repose than the baker, for it had not come easily. Unbeknownst to Nellie, he'd more than likely slept only just as much as her, which was certainly much less than they needed. Although he'd thought it not to affect him so, he realized then that it was a mistake.

Just in that moment, though he'd regret it later without a doubt, it was wholly tempting to simply give in. No further resistance required, the barber knew that it was, of course, a terrible idea to relax the tensed muscles in his neck, and yet he did so with not a hint of delay to slip his cheek just over the tip of Mrs. Lovett's head.

It didn't mean a thing – except perhaps that he was just as deprived as she.

The baker in question didn't utter a single syllable to the effect of this motion, conveying to Sweeney that she was in every sense oblivious to the world. For a second, he considered shaking her to get her awake, but he promptly dropped the idea. It was inconsiderate.

Though, he wasn't beyond a higher level of vengeance. Impolite was where he stopped – when he wanted to be nice – but where he started could range from any number of cruelties. In his mind, the baker was far too trusting. It was almost haunting; she was so close. All he had to do was unfold the thirsty blade at his side, and her life would be ended. It was all too abrupt, in his opinion; it was too easy. Mrs. Lovett was practically handing herself over for slaughter – albeit, she didn't mean to and certainly wouldn't have thought of it that way considering her unparalleled trust – but where was the catch?

Perhaps it came in the form of luck. Out of sheer chance, Sweeney decided against killing her. Not yet. Mostly, because he wanted her to suffer – and suffering didn't occur under sudden death. When he struck, she would need to be wide awake in order to feel the hurt, the pain, the betrayal…

The betrayal…

Out of pure weariness, he tossed the subject aside. Even as his vision began to cloud over in the unfamiliar experience of what seemed to be sleep, he knew that it would be in vain to begin to overanalyze his terms with Mrs. Lovett, because he'd only invariably come out with the same weakness and inability to seize her condemned life as he had the last time – in the bake-house.

Assuredly, he wouldn't let that happen again. No amount of beauty of presumed innocence could compensate her actions. What was done was done, and Nellie Lovett would pay the ultimate price for her foolishness.

Foolishness…like his. The same foolishness that had landed him in Australia. Inevitably, it was his foolishness now, as well. Did he not just vow not to overanalyze? In a thick sigh, he knew that it was unrelenting. Unrelenting to the verge of madness, which surely he'd crossed some time ago.

"Sidney…!" cried a voice in sudden distress. It shattered his thoughts to drag him into attentiveness, alerting his blurred mind to the increasing volume of a shrill yowling that, to the best of his discernment, seemed to be getting closer.

The realization snapped into place when he looked over at Tobi, who was gaping towards a streak of brown tabby that was unremittingly making its way for his head. Without taking the time to consider, the barber quickly grasped the back of Nellie's head to hold her in a firm vice to his chest and duck away from the intrusion.

It sailed just past his ear in a frenzy to clangor, hissing as it perched itself with an audible rip at the top of his chair, and then flew virulently onto the crest of his back. Flinching back from the stropped claws that gouged through the fabric of his shirt, the barber lurched backwards to catch the beast against the back of his chair and dragged it out as it squirmed.

The pointed razors adorning the cat's palms shredded at his sleeves as he threw it back across to a fearful Tobi, who stood waiting to embrace the monstrosity. He picked out the fur it had left on his hands with a terrible sense of dread; he could feel the weighted tension a kilometer away as it took to slowly advancing upon his pitiable sinuses.

To worsen his standing, then if "Sidney" hadn't roused the contemptuous baker from her slumber, then the gruff snort of air that pushed its way from its way from his lips certainly had. She was slow to stir in his arms, shrinking closer to his unlikely envelopment and raising her head only after he'd made an attempt to press away from her. With multiple yawns and a swipe of the knuckles to her eyes, Nellie blinked disoriented into his vehement stare, taking in his accusation with what could only be confusion.

"Sorry, dear, I must have dozed off," Mrs. Lovett contemplated loftily. "Where were we?"

The baker squirmed on his legs in an attempt to get up, chafing the material of her bulky dress against his skin as she slid to the side. With slight opprobrium, Sweeney noted that the lines of noxious grey emphasizing the eyes of her taut expression had not diminished. If anything, they might have become worse.

"Breakfast," he mumbled in short distaste. The thought of Mrs. Lovett's cooking, be it her infamous meat pies of a simple stew, gave him a premonition of disliking. Of course, he'd never consumed anything of her creation apart from the pies, but it did not inspire any enthusiasm to have the opportunity. In the least, he would now be able to feed it to that wretched cat.

"Ah, yes," Nellie exclaimed. "Thank you, love." She canted forward in a small moment of thoughtless, incorrigibility to breathe the words into his face, proposing something he didn't care to perceive with a simple fluttering of the eyes. Apparently, she had no heed for his deliberated space.

The barber hadn't even bothered to flick her a glance, wishing irremediably that Mrs. Lovett would relieve him of her presence, until her kiss invaded his crucial standard of obstinate ignorance. It shocked an intimate warmth of an invariable inundation through the nerves connecting to the upper half of his right cheek, leading him to believe that the baker was fast-becoming more of a nuisance than was tolerable.

In resemblance to Johanna, Nellie had kissed him and then disappeared around the corner all in an instant, leaving him to glare dejectedly over at the baker's obedient boy and his cat that followed after her. They left him to his solitude in the dim room, reflecting on their own what best to prepare for a meal, while Mr. Todd at last relished in the concept of being alone with his thoughts.

And yet the concept in its singularity did not bring about as much closure to his relief as he'd expected. The lissome motion of trickling impact brought about by Mrs. Lovett's putrification of his sense of assurance left him sick to think and in need of something more. Though it eluded his grasp what exactly the damaging sense of demanding necessity that left him in such dearth required, it made clear the fact that he would sooner thrust his shining blade across her delicate web of egg-white flesh than allow her to greet him in such familiarity again.

In a moment of decision, Sweeney decreed to make sure she did not have the chance. Preferring her in death sooner rather than later, his sympathies to her place were overcome by his long-pent resentment.

A small part of his mind did, in fact, criticize this selection and argued rather sensibly that both of their shameless lives had been up to misfortune and the cruelty of London, but the better part of his knowingly neurotic judgment shoved aside this thought to leave no regret or mercy behind the conclusion to arrest Eleanor of her unfortunate life.

Swiftly plunging to his feet in a rapid fluidity, the barber felt a twinge from the cut at his throat as it threatened to overturn his boundless control, and took a hasty step backwards as the spots started to gather in his line of vision. He felt the fluid of his life straining against the encasement of his veins, pulsing an aching flash of blind pain up through the back of his head, and travailed to blink away the searing lashes of white that slithered even under closed eyes. It didn't work as well as he'd hoped, but proved well enough to permit his desultory lumbering forward, resolute on aiming for the door.

With a decisive stride ensuing the fading of the instantaneous moment of deterioration, Sweeney slipped his silver accomplice from its place at his side and held it aloft. Tracing down its precious engravings in a white-knuckled grasp, he flourished in the light that gleamed off of its lustrous surface and squinted into his own ironically distorted image as the blade mirrored it. Setting reason aside, Mr. Todd gave an ashen smirk at his reflection in anticipation of the glittering ruby liquid that would soon mask the ugly face of demented excitement that stared back at him.

For so long, it had been all that he was capable of processing. Over months on end, the only thing he could think of was the judge, murdering the judge, and what he'd done to poor Lucy. In that time, he'd been in the state to literally eat, sleep, breathe, and walk murder. Now was no different, except the esteemed Judge Turpin was no longer the object of his obsession.

Lowering his weapon to camouflage it beneath a palm held casually at his side, Sweeney pressed the blade close to his thigh and crept towards the bustling figure of Nellie Lovett in the recess of her kitchen. A single glance about the room told him that he was free of witnesses besides Tobi's wretched Sidney, and he was wholly liberated to watch the baker bleed.

Undoubtedly, Mrs. Lovett bled just as red as any of his former patrons, but to him it would be brighter. Her blood would be a luminescent radiance worthy of encomium, the brightest of his sacrifices and the more virulent taste of vengeance for his dear Lucy. With her back turned, he could see her and feel it – so close…

In just a few short steps, his razor outstretched in a hungry measure, the barber froze in a wild sense of itching palsy. With an inflamed prickling sweeping up the back of his throat, the barber held tighter to his blade in expectance of the insufferable noise, and cursed the cat with ungoverned malice.


	5. Undisputed Charm with the Intent of Harm

A/N: Hey guys! I think I had a mix-up with the chapter names earlier, but it's fixed now… Anyway, now that I'm starting school tomorrow, I might get to update…lets see, every other millennia? Who knows…? I might be able to tell you once I get a gauge on how much work I'll be doing. I just finished writing chapter seven last night, so it's pretty slow going. I hope you can bear with me on this, because I really hope to get somewhere with this story. (You should see my plot page – so many things scribbled in all different directions…) Thanks so much for reading thus far, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter! Cheers! And if you have the time, then reviews make me extremely happy!! :) (Oh yeah, and has anyone heard of the Alice in Wonderland/Mad Hatter thing? That'll be fun…-mwa ha-)

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Having every ounce weight down her limbs like ten times its amount, drawing across her bones a thorough kind of hollow throbbing, led to the discovery that Mrs. Lovett was anything but in good health and all but collapsing for lack of rest. It signaled a new kind of stress to her mind, persevering as far beyond tired until the baker was working dead on her feet. Nothing seemed to work quite right, and in her weary state Nellie knew without a moment's doubt that she was by no means in a condition to tackle the bake-house stairs.

She'd never in her life been more grateful to Tobi than just then, thanking the blessed heavens for all she was worth for sending such a loyal, helpful angel. He did the traveling for her, back and forth to the basement oven, and the baker was at an honest loss as to where he'd acquired all of his energy. He had seemingly endless amounts where she felt entirely spent, and in her exhaustion she was at least content to know that the boy had not been permanently deranged by his encounter with her true misgivings involving Mr. Todd and her pies. For such cunning, he was gullible and trusting to the point of encouraging guilt.

Though Nellie had only time to create one batch of a confectionary design – fruit filled pies brimmed with the best apples and blueberries in the market – it had still been a relief to know that Tobi would be able to help her this time, without secrets and in her greatest gratitude. Of course, she'd had for him to specifically change out the furnace's fuel after the incident involving the unfortunate Lucy Barker. Simply put, it would not do on any standard of morality to bake breakfast over her tenant's wife.

As it was, the baker was left to slave over the next batch of fruit pies in Tobias' absence, dusting off a light coating of flour to her brow in the hopes that time might pass slower just for once. In only a couple of hours, Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium would officially open for the business of the day, and already the owner herself was ready to flip the sign closed for the night. Not to mention the small facet that Nellie wasn't sure if she was ready to look at another meat pie just yet.

After making sure the beadle and the judge were secured in the store of meat loading the large grinder, the baker felt sick to feed such wickedness to her unsuspecting patrons. However much money it brought in, she would always have her tender doubts. Assuredly, it was of course Sweeney who came first in her mind. Digestion was no crime left to trace. As long as the corpses were kept hidden, Mrs. Lovett knew that she'd do anything under her power for Mr. Todd.

_Speak of the Devil_…

"AHHCHKBULGH…!" snorted a loud voice at her back. It was harsh enough to give her a fright at the unexpected clamor, and in whirling around she heard the cat give a rebellious hiss that knotted up the startled anxiety in her stomach. In comparison, it was a nauseous type of feeling that worked against her system in a most patronizing manner, making her feel as if she was in need of support from the surface of the flour-topped counter.

Standing rigid before her with an air of disgust lingering about his expression was Sweeney Todd, wavering forwards with a secondary wave of uncertainty playing on the edge of his demeanor and a hand held just out of her line of vision. She could tell that the hand fisted something as it tucked itself further behind his back, but gave up the curiosity in order to peer more closely at the grimace plastered to the forefront of his face. Clearly, the cat she'd given Tobi bothered him more than he'd expected or would be willing to admit.

"Well," Nellie huffed innocently, "What's the matter, Mr. T; you scared the life from me. You're alright?"

Stiffly – as if it pained in to mind her every once-in-a-while – he nodded. It was probably the best reaction she could have hoped to get from the acclaimed barber, but it did not deter her from seeing his real damage. 'Alright' seemed to be in the eye of the beholder, considering Mr. Todd seemed to think staggering into countertops and breathing profanities was such a normal standard of action. He breathed as if deprived of air, gasping like it was liable to be stolen from the mere touch of his ghostly lips, and it induced her brushing away her sense of exhaustion to concentrate on this new form of a rare weakness.

"You don't look to be in such fine shape to me, love. You might want to go on and lie down for a bit, don't you think?"

Again, the barber nodded, and took her proposal into consideration by emptying his fingers of their contents with a flick of the wrist – almost too quick to follow – and deftly plucking a chair from a table by the window to sit in what she would have called a diffident manner had she not known him better. He had an air about him like a rheumatic disappointment or unyielding resentment, and yet he made no gesture to even throw her a glare. Instead, he took to leering at the floor in a rather unpleasant bearing that depicted the presence of a deeper pain – indubitably, from that gash at his throat that he took so much care to ignore – and sniffed at the effect of Tobi's cat on his symptoms of antipathy.

"I'm not surprised," Nellie drawled, filling what she felt to be an uncomfortable manner of silence. "What with parading around the way you have been with such a near encounter with death itself…why, you should be in bed – not creeping up behind poor, old, lonely women and scaring their wits out of them."

From the curt bob of his head and the sharp, vacant look that had taken over his expression, the baker knew that she'd already lost him, or in the least, was losing him fairly quickly. He slouched forwards in the chair, elbows coming to rest upon the sullied countertop, and aimed an unfocused glance towards Mrs. Lovett's face before fixing it on her flour.

There was something there, she knew, beyond the usual, vague bitterness that infected his form, but she couldn't place it. The more his attention ebbed, the more apparent it became, and yet she still failed to name the gratingly odd ailment to his protocol.

Condoning the occurrence for a simple illusion – surely, an effect of her inauspicious lassitude – and artifice of the mind, Nellie turned towards the bake-house entrance in a stolid impatience. Only minutely aware of the barber's eyeing her with a tangible sense of invidious pique, she wandered towards the set of stairs angled downwards towards the core setting of her dreams. It centered on nightmares more frequently than not, but the dancing she was not likely to forget. If the essence of fear could have been removed, then Mrs. Lovett was sure that such an experience would only exist as part of her fantasies.

"I sent Tobi down to get them pies," she mused aloud, "but it shouldn't be taking the poor dear this long. What do you suppose he's doing down there? It's only fruit; he shouldn't be having any problems with that, and I already took care of everything else. What's keeping him, do you think?" The baker knew that Mr. Todd wouldn't be inclined to answer any of her queries, but he also needn't have bothered.

Out of curiosity, Nellie wobbled a few steps downwards, only to find a reverberating semblance of small footsteps as they traveled up the staircase in her direction. Wholly relieved by the echoing sound, she stood back as Tobi passed her, watching him grin sheepishly at the oversized tray of small, fruit pies he carried to the counter.

Mr. Todd's eyes followed the pies that surfaced from the dim light of the staircase with marginal curiosity etched onto his dull proprieties, watching in particular the contents that leaked from the edges of the crust. His sharp gaze focused onto the fillings of apples and blueberries, flickering across in skepticism to Mrs. Lovett's watchful eye as Tobi thrust the tray underneath his nose in something just shy of a wary type of indifference.

"They look wonderful," the boy boasted. "Can I have one, mum?"

Keeping her stare on the barber, Nellie nodded her approval in an absent reply and sidled over to stand before them both. "Sure thing, love," she chirped. "Have as many as you like. It's for us, after all. Go on, Mr. T; they won't bite back. It's the only thing I could come up with, being stretched for time so. I hope you don't mind. That's alright, isn't it, dear?"

Neither would look her straight in the face, but Tobi was the first to snatch one of the pies to begin devouring it. Between mouthfuls, he grinned at her and sought her reaction to his grateful approval, but the baker barely made note of this action due to her preoccupation with a certain barber's awaited imprimatur. Whilst her apprentice's response was to be expected, Mrs. Lovett was left to wonder at the blank look adorning Sweeney's expression as he scrutinized his breakfast in what looked to be disfavor. Did he care?

"This is really great!" exclaimed Tobi, impending towards a tone that was not to be mistaken for mere enthusiasm. At last, he had her attention as she snapped her gaze to him to try and discern what had put such an unwonted edge to his voice. Such a callous blow had never been warranted, and even proved to procure one of Mr. Todd's esteemed glances, yet was anything but apparent on his beaming face and fervent poise.

In a fastidious quality reminiscent of Tobi's newly acquired cat, Sweeney edged off a corner of an apple pie with an accusation of clear deprecation across his acrimonious face. This caught Mrs. Lovett's application in an instant to distract her from her apprentice's consternation, and wholly immersed her with the way Mr. Todd's criticism vanished from his mien and he continued on her pie in an assured sense of alleviation that, sadly, seemed to be lacking in what she sought and none too agreeable to share in Tobi's alacrity. He ignored her agog vigilance with perfunctory scorn to stare past her cluttered counter with a gaze that was entirely inept at looking attentive.

Picking out one of the pies for herself, brimmed with blueberries, Nellie turned it around before her eyes to examine the structure. It was the best she could have achieved in her state, and yet to the critical eye it was full of blatant imperfections that had her chagrin flaring in her cheeks at how clumsy she'd pulled together the meal. For all of her discomfiture, however, neither Tobi nor Mr. Todd seemed to notice these blemishes. They were equally engaged in absorption with, more than likely, opposing tracts to the same pattern of thought regarding herself.

Fighting a sigh and losing the battle, Mrs. Lovett took to dejectedly nibbling at the edge of the crusting on her fruit-filled confection. The room's other occupants were already absorbed in their own fascinations, staring glassy-eyed into the open air, and she supposed that she might as well do the same. She wished desperately that she could, to escape the itching, burning sensation that twanged at the unprepossessing scabs across her skin and to be granted a reprieve from the weighted ache of her chest at her unmatched pain, both physically and mentally. Unfortunately, her mind was obstinately refusing to draw anything but a blank at her request to conjure up the fantastical images of sea-side weddings and moon-lit dances.

Those images had been scattered into a mere dream, an irremediable glimmer in the face of reality. She knew now – had known for quite some time, but refused to believe – that the man she had known was truly gone, and what he'd left in his place was never going to sympathize with her simplistic notions of love. Benjamin was never coming back. He was dead, and had never loved her at all to begin with. Her fondness of the barber had been an irredeemable quality from the start. It had been mere fiction.

Lucy. What had he seen – _did_ he see in her? Honestly, from what she could perceive, it had to have been skin-deep. How could such a sagacious, becoming man be attracted to such an infantile, ignominy as her? The prospect was surreal, conflicting with every sense and emotion she possessed, and yet it was more real than any of her pitiable, covetous necessities. At least Lucy had betrayed him with more sensibility than she herself, and it was enough to force upon her the regret of her grief. No matter how ignominious, he deserved Lucy, and not Nellie. Undoubtedly, that was the way he wanted it.

Within her increasing despondency, the baker pleaded in a forlorn silence for anyone that could hear her mute cries to relieve her of this misery. She deserved every ounce, she knew, but it didn't halt the ragged mass of sweltering agony, and in fact proved to make it worse. In partial sarcasm, she made an arduous effort to hold back the rue that clamped down on her throat and stole away her breath. She tried to shove it away, swallow the lump of oppression blocking her airways and shake off the mournful thoughts.

Was it enough to breathe, when the very air she inhaled seemed to scorn her lungs and tear at her sense of entitlement to her life? Was it enough to live, when life brought her such misfortune and heartsick desolation? Was it enough to die, if he wouldn't care for her affections, not even take note of her absence beyond rejoice? Was it enough to love, when love alone could never bring about such reciprocation as that which tormented her out of her reach?

As was expected of her luck, her dreaming had left her incomplete. Love…? Perhaps that was fiction, as well.

So then why did she beg for a merciful stroke to stop this molten anguish and rip out her bleeding heart as she still stood? What was left of her would certainly be better off without it. For her, love was not the sweet collision of a faltering pulse and the loss of rationalization – though it had certainly brought about those things, as well – but a plague like no other.

It thoroughly escaped her how Sweeney could have felt something so similar towards his wife. The sensation penetrated to her core, fled to the deepest corners of her mind, and crashed though her every perception with a dolor that only sharpened in her realization; there was no escape. How could he possibly have felt such a fluttering warmth from the simple proximity of that pompous, disreputable, impudent, pontificating, and namelessly beautiful gall? She simply wasn't worth it, but Mrs. Lovett was scourged by a minute voice that suggested the precarious truth that, in reality, neither was _she_.

Out of some unspoken cardinal ultimatum issued by the bureaucracy of society, it was forbidden. How could she love the man who'd tried to murder her so carelessly, attempted to throw away her life as if she was as disposable as one of his patrons? As a similarity, she would not have been missed. Life was cruel, and it threw neither of the pair any release from the garish nightmare it created. How could Mr. Todd love someone whom he'd never even cared for to begin with, and who had left out the truth of his wife's status of vitality so foolishly? From their deceit, fate would seem to have it that they execrated one another to the point of death.

Sweeney was, naturally, the only one that still took into account something as preposterous as the notion of fate. Having long since locked away that item as a ridiculous superstition, Mrs. Lovett was essentially more keen on such unjustified affections regarding the barber. Whether she liked it or not – and truthfully, she didn't have much choice in that matter, either – she could do nothing but feel hurt in association to Mr. Todd's thrusting her inside her own oven. A more analytical state of rationalization told her to forget about him and escape as far away as possible, but it couldn't be helped; even without hope, how could she just leave him when he was in such obvious requirement of some sort of attention to that wide slit across his throat?

Eyeing the barber over the rest of her small pie, she took another tasteless bite and sighed with envy at how he could hold the world in such little esteem and so easily disregard her love. For her, that emotion could never be overlooked with any amount of abandon simply because it was her own.

It seemed that they had both been conditioned to wait, and were waiting still, for visions that had long since ceased to be a reality. For years on end, an eternity without companionship, they had both been subject to the torment of isolation, and had shared a similar anguish through the expanse of kilometers and time that separated them. Regardless, the baker lingered yet on the fancies that had grounded her urge to follow Todd's bride to her toxic doom those many years ago.

Patience, she had told herself, for the return of her Benjamin was inevitable in due time. No matter the lifetime of his sentencing, she had counted the days upon his departure to this return. Although said return was far from her expectations conceived of this event, Nellie had waited, much unlike Mr. Todd's incriminatingly pretty consort.

But now, as she stood shielding the impropriety of the frail liquid that tickled her quickly flushing cheeks with what was left of her breakfast, the baker was apt to wonder just where exactly her patience had gotten her. In all certainty, it had earned her nothing but failed dreams that had been thrust into the imprecate of flame as they lie dormant. It had gotten absolutely nowhere, pressing on more backwards than forwards in an even worse situation than she'd started off in. It had gotten her shoved into the bake-oven by the hand of the only man she had ever really loved.

After all of the waiting that had brought about the thoroughly unpleasant twinge to her undoubtedly shattered heart, Mrs. Lovett decided that she was entirely sick of the idea. As some unfathomably clever person had once said, there was no time like the present. The prospect of the past wholly disgusted her, beginning with her naïveté concerning Mr. Barker, and ending with the same stance in correlation to Mr. Todd. It was all the same: eat, wake to nightmares, daydream of the barber, cook, and cry. She hated crying; the only infirmity that could be used against her, all out of waiting for her Benjamin, and it proved even worse than the waiting itself.

Gritting her teeth against the shudder of breath that threatened to reveal her tears and swallowing with much difficulty, Mrs. Lovett blotted the rush of emotion that cascaded down her face with the end of a flour-coated rag. There was no doubt in her mind that she must have looked quite the sight, having just replaced her tears with smudges of the powder clinging to the bedraggled piece of cloth, but it didn't particularly matter when she knew that the cost to her appearance wouldn't even register in Sweeney's conviction. Sniffing quietly in a dejected manner, Nellie put on a façade of vivacity to jump on her aching feet towards the other end of the room.

Strolling past the barber, she tossed the remnants of her food to the counter and brushed a hand along his unresponsive shoulder-blades, making her way for the door. She could feel Tobi's inquisitive stare on her back as she retreated, and had the good grace to turn and answer his unvoiced question.

"I'm just going to lie down for a tad; these poor bones don't feel so well, is all. Could you finish off them pies for me, Tobi dear? The shop's set to open soon, and I'm fit to collapse on the spot. All you'd have to do is pop them in the oven, really; I'd greatly appreciate it, love."

Soon after this proposition, Sweeney turned to fix her in a frown as her apprentice raced to make a show of obeying her request. The barber kept her from moving away just yet with the simplest of looks, squinting at her as if she'd just sprouted six fins and a bright green horn. She loitered in the doorway with as much custom as a badger, wishing feverishly that he would leave her be. Out of the way his black stare traced over her expression and measured her like the cutting edge of one of his razors, the baker wasn't too sure of how much she could take before her poor heart burst and she resorted to throwing kitchen appliances. No doubt, she'd seem infinitely crazier then than she did now.

"Mrs. Lovett," spoke Mr. Todd darkly. "Are you really going to insist on doing business in your condition?"

Shifting her weight to the frame of the door just in case her shortcoming of breath left her incapable of standing as well, she flicked a glance towards Tobi as he stumbled his way down the dim passage to the bake-house. Now that she thought on it, the barber was probably right (as usual), but nothing of this manner had ever gotten to her before. Then again, nothing of this manner had ever afflicted her as it had, either. It was thoroughly out of her league as to how to deal with any of it, except to do what she did best. In retrospect, it wasn't as if Sweeney really cared if she worked herself to death. At such a morbid thought, she had to travail to stifle another biting sob that tightened in her throat at the unexpected throe.

"Of course," Nellie answered curtly. "Why not?"

He arched an eyebrow at her from their distance, his scowl deepening as something decidedly unusual settled over his brow and he stood halfway before deliberating a slow course across the room to reach her vacillating side. She simply stood, laboring to breathe against the door frame and watching the barber as he strode towards her in such composure. His icy touch made itself known through a light brush from the tips of his fingers to her arm, indicating his opinion of her conclusion: not a good idea.

For once, Mrs. Lovett let his conception slide out the other ear, and make of her what he would. The baker allowed their precarious contact to slip out of existence as she moved past Mr. Todd, heading in the opposite direction for the door to the outside world and forcing her muscles to move against their will. With every ounce of certainty to offer, Nellie knew that her worn-out body needed rest, and it was eager to receive it, except that she'd always been the adamant type. Sweeney thought she'd been weakened and exhausted, and no matter how right he was, she was bound to prove him wrong.

The barber followed her with some reluctance as she made her way outside, standing just behind her in the grey mist with an expression even more grim than the weather. Clearly, he did not approve of her sudden disinterest in his credence. He scowled at her as she turned to supply him with a grin, unable to make out just why he was wasting his time on her. Perhaps it was just the impression that might be given of him if his landlady showed up looking beaten, but since when had he cared about reputation? Mrs. Lovett had yet to figure it out, but made little of the predicament to focus on more important issues.

"Never mind you me, dear," she said. "I'll be just fine. It's you we need to worry about; you didn't see all that blood pouring out from that hole in your neck like I did the other night. A little burn's nothing compared to all that, now. All the barbers in the world couldn't compare to a proper doctor, love, and I daresay that's what you need. What do you say to a little stroll down the city, Mr. T?"

This, as well, was not one of her better conceptions. Seeing as both Mr. Todd and herself were in need of a peace not attainable by the motion brought on by a walk through the city, whether to see a doctor or not, she supposed it might have been more reasonable to get Tobi to call on a doctor. Sweeney, in her mind, seemed to think that these unvoiced second thoughts were a better idea also, because he took her by the arm rather forcefully this time to drag her through the door and shut it with a resonant slam about the empty establishment. Only then did she clearly see his difference of opinion, distracting her absent wondering at where Tobi could have gotten to.

"There will be no doctors," he growled. Taking in what she thought to be her frazzled appearance, he sneered at her prostration in an effort to strike this ultimatum into her. His dark eyes scoured her face in lucid dislike, forcing a trickle of uncertainty into the heart that was beating so rapidly for escape at her throat.

Of course, his efforts were in vain. The baker was of a mindset to carry on whatever she thought was best, and no solitary look by an equally afflicted barber was going to change this. Therefore, upon seeing this for himself, Mr. Todd was prone to thrusting her unresisting strength quite grouchily through the nearest room and to her bed. She landed in an unceremonious heap, and he grimaced at the action, possibly because the movement stung the injury wrought upon his neck, before giving her a cold type of stare that had her resisting the impulse to shrink back.

"Go to sleep, then," the barber spat. At this, she couldn't help but laugh. His irritated mien appeared to grow tenfold at the mirth, but she was redeemed by his tolerance of the act to slip her a malignant glance that was halfway curious.

"You should know it's not so easy, love," she answered. Already, his exasperation was tugging him towards the exit, and she was loathe to be alone. "I can't just go to sleep on command. There's a shop to run, and there's Tobi. I couldn't make him do all of the work, now. That wouldn't be very nice. What about you, dear? Shouldn't you be opening your own parlor up there by now?"

He stopped. Something too quick to recognize passed across his expression, before he melted into a deft smirk that had her head beginning to feel light and her suspicions racing. She wasn't so far-gone that she didn't catch the sly edge to his familiarity, and it sent her incertitude spiraling into a riot. Something wasn't right, she knew, but the idle touch of his hand to her shoulder left her without a clue as to what. Nothing good could come of the way he lowered himself to sit at her side, or the way his palatable breath glided over the back of her hand when he lifted it to his face, eyeing the bandage about her palm. The baker was a firm believer of practicality, despite her wanderings on the distant fancies regarding the man before her, and she looked upon his amicable smile with distaste. This was all a game, a complete façade on his part, and yet she saw no reason for his mysterious motives. _Why_?

"I'm not about to serve customers looking like this," replied Sweeney casually, referring to the bandaging wound over his throat. "They would ask too many questions." He turned to her, his onyx gaze alight in an artful picture of seduction that played with her fragile ardor, and his voice poured out in a contrived imitation of flawless, emphatic velvet. "Would you sleep now, my pet?"

Her heart must have been delusionally masochistic to flutter at that tone of voice, but she could do nothing to stop the heat clawing in feeble desperation at her cheeks as his fingers threaded themselves through hers. It was an intricate lie and nothing more, she was certain, but there was no telling that to the throng of bliss that pounded in her raging pulse. She wished fervently that she could give in to such allurement and believe in his carefully chosen actions, but Nellie was not subject to the folly of fools. No element of the past even remotely supported this sudden affection, and she'd been a pawn of this game before. Mrs. Lovett was inclined no longer to fall for such swaying enticement.

"Mr. Todd-" she began, but no sooner had she started then he had positioned an inducing hand at her chin to tilt her head towards the ceiling. The contact startled her as much as it set the room to spinning out of her ecstasy and illness combined, but she knew without a moment of hesitation that she was inevitably falling into a dangerous trap. Whatever he had planned in this snare, it could be nothing of the sweetness for which she longed.

The man she'd been pining after for all these years was dead. Her mind knew this from the moment the barber had resorted to murder, but her heart simply refused to believe. Or perhaps it was something in that crooked grin, that wicked glint of daring in his penetrating stare, that rough voice so thick with resentment, and that enigmatic aura that left her at such a loss for words whenever he chanced to look her way. It was like being a school girl all over again, hormones running rampant to wreak havoc on her emotions. Who was this man? She'd known him virtually all her life, and yet he had returned from imprisonment shrouded in esoteric mystification beyond what she could ever have imagined.

With the chill of his hand on her chin and the warmth of his breath so close across her cheeks, it was hard to make out whether she'd simply fallen asleep already or not. Nellie wondered suddenly what he would do if she were to kiss him in his act, whether he would play along or break the spell. A part of her begged to find out, toiled to persuade her lips a scant distance forward, but she remained still in the impression that if she moved she might be sick. No part of her wanted to find out what Mr. Todd would do if she were to let loose what she'd managed to force down of her breakfast into his lap, and she didn't chance to make this apprisal.

"Sleep," the barber ground out in a sudden urgency. He seemed strained to retain all of his former equanimity in his impatience, and she had to hold her breath out of the proximity of his caged fury in its unpredictability and sporadic flashes. Dragging herself backwards as her stomach swelled with all of the excitement, she felt herself being pulled back as the cool fingers abandoned their place at her chin to tug at the back of her neck. A shiver made its way along her skin at the frigid touch, and she squeezed her eyes shut in concentration as her face was pressed close into Sweeney's shoulder.

Out of all of her incredulity and focus on keeping her insides in place, however, she still found the humor to give a breathless laugh to Mr. Todd's circumstance. Whatever he wanted, he must have wanted it rather bad to go to these extremes. The prospect aided in calming her frivolous nerves, replacing her fixation with an amused skepticism. With the situation the barber had instigated, he was sure to be in a very uncomfortable position concerning his bitter contempt for herself after how she'd lied. It wasn't below her to scoff at his discomfort in well-deserved mockery – internally, of course – as he laid back upon her pillows with her head entrapped just below his own.

"You mean I'm not?" she mused. It wasn't so much that she thought this anymore, though she hadn't ruled out the possibility, but that it proved to be a good thing to say given the circumstance. Sweeney was kept oblivious to her lack of that very condition, while Mrs. Lovett was given ample time to figure out what it was that he was trying to get at. As always, he proved to be quite the difficult puzzle in terms of the enigma that surrounded him, and she pondered whether or not he knew how much he really did hide himself from the world.

"No." It was all he cared to say, murmured against her hair in a fashion that wasn't a far shot from soothing had be been a little less tense and a little more truthful in his actions. He couldn't just walk in and start being nice to her, then expect her to believe it, could he? Evidently, 15 years in Australia hadn't taught him much of the social world.

Nellie said nothing, and took the opportunity to bury her face in his scent of…blood and alcohol. Lovely. After quietly gagging out of his sight and taking the time to consider the stench, she decided that it didn't matter. Whatever he smelled like, it was far too late to try to stop or hide her silly enrapturement. Though he would have smelled abysmally better without the mask of a clotted slash and gin.

"What about you, then?" she countered. He couldn't have been willing to just lie there the entire time if he finally coaxed her into sleep. Unequivocally, once he'd lulled her into oblivion, then he would make a chore out of achieving his latent goal. Whatever it was, she was given a fair premonition from his false benevolence that it didn't involve a favorable outcome on her part. His camaraderie was too misplaced, and concerned her enough to fret over what he was really doing.

Conceivably, he could be plotting her demise. It wasn't unlike him to take her life on such a whim since, after all, she'd given him good reason. Even that, an end to her pitiable misery, did not worry her in the slightest. The real bother came about under the question of what he might do in her absence, and what might happen to poor Tobias and her barber. Surely, he wouldn't kill Tobi, as well?

"I'm staying here," was Mr. Todd's reply. He answered truthfully enough, sounding almost bored, but she knew he must have been anticipating the ulterior motive. With an empty sweep of his palm, he had covered both him and herself to their chins in the tattered, red quilts that lined her bed, and his fingers traveled back up to dust past her cheek in a touch that set off her frenzied depth of feeling to drum at her ears.

With the lazy stroking he served her copper maelstrom, it was easy to forget such grounds discerning a need for caution. She shut her eyes to the plaintive hand at the back of her head, taking into account nothing but the man pressed to her front and the intimacy of that gesture despite the mendacity in his advances. Knowing she should have felt herself in violation of a matter of space between herself and the barber, and yet feeling nothing but a false sense of aegis, Nellie was apt to discover his suggestion of sleep far more appealing than it should have been. She wound an arm about his neck in the hope that he would acquiesce to such an action, and was considerably surprised as well as pleased when he returned the gesture to irk his face into the false warmth of an indolent smile.

Mrs. Lovett knew as well as Sweeney that it was a lie, but she was incorrigibly enticed to indulge in the farcical illusion despite this knowledge. Under the impression that the impenitent acceptance would land her in the center of a very fine scenario, the baker pledged to enjoy every moment of the exceptional occasion, and warranted to give Mr. Todd his way by closing her eyes to the anticipation embedded in his coy smile. Giving herself to the fantasy, Nellie was fully aware, might cost her the life she'd worked so dearly to protect, but she would undoubtedly have her compensation.

Already having given just short of everything to Sweeney (her love, her home, her soul, her dedication), the baker shrugged over keeping this one small favor from his grasp. Why not just give him her life, as well, and let him have everything? She'd already allowed him too much, and should have shooed him off when he first set foot on her doorstep, but it had already come too far. In some twisted sense of selfless glory, Mrs. Lovett realized that, if it made Mr. Todd happy, then she would savor her death just as much as he. If she knew what she was doing and willingly consented, then it could never be called a betrayal this time.

Her own treachery, whether in the pretension of good virtue or not, was now ingrained in her mind as a regret leveling her fond devotion and partiality to the barber no matter what he called himself. It was the predominant reason for her ready willingness to give up her life for the man if he so desired, because Mrs. Lovett was stricken with the knowledge that there could be no redemption. She had destroyed his life in its second chance before it could even have begun by simply taking her eyes off of Lucy and ignoring the threats of suicide as petty and ridiculous. If the only way to gain the former Benjamin and her Mr. Todd and amount of satisfaction from this new life was to offer up her own, then she would do so gladly. Love was sacrifice, as she well knew, and his pain was her own.

"I'm so sorry Mr. Todd…Sweeney…but you wouldn't accept this apology. You don't have to, really; you shouldn't." Words she thought she'd never speak, had never dreamed to entail, were probably going unnoticed. She didn't hope to fool herself; it hurt. Her chest was constricted by such a massive encumberment, but rightfully so. Nellie, not quite knowing how things had suddenly all gone so wrong, was in the necessitation of hearing these words more than their intended. They gave her the courage to continue, and the precedence to pull away from the barber, in spite of how much she truly longed to stay ensconced in his embrace.

Not only had Mrs. Lovett failed miserably in the aspect of love, she was forced to her knees and beaten by it, and she had lost a valuable friend in the process. None of what little providence she possessed could have informed her of how lost to her and lost to the world Benjamin Barker would become, of how she would summon a similar fondness for the man he would become despite his riddling qualities, or of how she would betray the memory of the present man and even herself in keeping such a simple article of knowledge from him. It was truly astonishing to find what little her good intentions had done and how fine the line between such kindness and her avarice really was. Lucy, like him to her, had been his every thought and whim, and Nellie was ashamed at how little that had seemed to matter. He missed her like she missed him, and loved her like she loved him.

Living in the past, it seemed, would have been their ultimate flaw to instigate the downfall that now had her in his mercy and begging for the release her death might bring them both.

Before she could continue, Sweeney shifted in his place to interrupt her and glare based on the use of his first name. He appeared to further his façade with a light touch to her arm and a cold look of what he might have supposed was concern, but Mrs. Lovett knew her place. Shrinking back and catching his eye, the baker drew in an extensive breath at his drolling query of "Why are you apologizing?"

Wriggling under the sheets in order to soak up some of the warmth she'd given up on parting herself from the barber, Nellie employed herself in the better judgment of keeping her distance and repressing the burning liquid that thrived precariously close to spilling from under her lids. It resisted with unyielding adamancy and a rigid denial to being suppressed, but the baker was able to pin down the implacable emotion with an exorable will of her own and a furious blinking. She didn't even dare to breathe under the unrelenting oppression, for fear that the air would give way for the affliction to spring forth a series of disgraceful convulsions of her lungs or throat and break free a shudder. Even out of this defiance, a couple of tears managed to liberate themselves to stroke past the corners of her eyes, but Mrs. Lovett annihilated them in a haste.

Under absolutely no circumstance would she show such a weakness to Mr. Todd, no matter how deviously it plotted to overthrow her equanimity into opprobrium. It got her nowhere and incited a pity he didn't possess, nor did she require. Strength was key to remain in favor or a bearable amount of esteem, and frailty provoked only further enfeeblement. He'd seen the impairment of her tears at least once before, and she wasn't about to serve him another glimpse of this low decrepitude. She didn't ask for forgiveness, encouraging his every right to be at odds with her, and in fact felt the same amount of scorn for herself as he. Crying was as bad as carrying on in pleading for her pardon, and it only delayed the inevitable; she knew that she would neither receive nor deserve such exoneration.

"You know I've done something terribly awful, Mr. T," the baker breathed, willing the tremor to stay out of her voice. She would not cry; the deed was done, and no absolution could be guaranteed. Nellie had known he'd loathed her, and not once had Lucy left his mind. Mrs. Lovett could _not_ cry in front of Sweeney. "I'm not going to deny this. You should know I regret it to the fullest, I do. There's nothing to be done for it, though. I love you, Mr. Todd, just as I always have. I know you're not who you used to be; I love you both alike. It's why I've always tried so hard, I suppose, but I never thought it would turn out to be like all of this. I never meant you any harm, dear, and I never meant anything by it to your wife in all of it. She was a right lucky twit, and I'm so sorry for it. None of us deserves this mess I've gotten us all into, love…except me, of course."

Lending her a sidelong glance, it wasn't until she'd finished that Mr. Todd turned his head to regard her completely, his gaze flickering between indifference, his feigned appreciation as it was quickly fading, and something else that had her struggling to discern. It was the same shadow she'd seen cross over his brow earlier that day, after their startling encounter in the main shop where he'd frightened her heart to jumping at his parlor above. Whatever it was, it had vanished in the next moment before she could study it further, to be replaced by a bleak dolor and what she'd have liked to have thought was a mild understanding.

"You lied to me, Mrs. Lovett," said the barber, and she felt her heart sink. Expectation had always been this much, but her hope had just been finalized as nothing more. She thought she might have actually cried aloud, in a most displeasing and unpleasant way, until Sweeney continued. "…but that doesn't mean that you forced my wife to drink poison. That was no drink to her health; she would've known. You didn't banish me or molest her, my _pet_."

He didn't say any more, but the insinuation was clear; none of this mess she claimed was hers would have existed if the judge hadn't found a way to interfere. It hadn't started with her lies, only tarried on. Ultimately, he thought Turpin to be the greatest culprit, though she was surely not resigned to freedom from accusation just yet. It was a wonderful feeling, but it could never last. Mrs. Lovett was quick to dissent against his opinion in her mind since he would still have a wife to have come home to if she'd simply kept a closer watch. She may not have started it, but she had been a key factor in all of their misfortune. And, on top of it all, she'd just _had_ to have acquired a weak will when it came to telling Mr. Todd what had become of his wife. Instead, she'd left him to his own conclusion, knowing what that might have been.

"So you mean to say that the bloke whose last dieing effort was to take a peek up me skirts was there to force poison down your wife's throat? That bloody judge didn't care what poor Lucy did, love; he thought of all women in the same mind. Not the most appealing notion, I'll warrant, but he wasn't the one to keep watch over her when she was in that pitiful state of hers." Biting down on her lip, now, to keep from making any less-than-attractive noises, the baker blotted at her traitorous tears with the corner of her quilt and diverted her gaze to the blanket as if it was the most riveting thing in the world. "I didn't take care of her like I should've, I know I didn't. I hadn't the faintest clue what to do with her, after something like that. I never meant her any harm – I mean I was always sort of jealous, I suppose – but, oh, I never meant her any harm! She wouldn't come down, no matter what I tried, Mr. T! I even neglected me poor Albert to help her, I did. Died that week, in his sleep, bless his heart. I tried, Mr. T, but…she never listened to me. There was nothing for it when she went and took that poison; she stood on top of a chair and threatened to fling me own knife at me if I so much as touched her. I'm so sorry, Mr. T…I really am. I could've done something, I know I could! Even when they took her away, I could've….I could've…oh, I don't know! She didn't deserve it, I could have saved her, I could have told you, but I hated her! I _hated_ her, Mr. T…for you…so much, but I couldn't help it; I wanted to _be_ her, I still do, so much that it pains me! It's terrible, I know, but…I do wish, truly, that it was the other way around. I mean, that _I_ had died and _she_ had lived."

That, at last, seemed to grab his waning and outraged attention. Her sobbing was inescapable now, and he had looked to be on the fink of one of his explosions, but now he simply looked upon her in the semblance of mystification. The stare held none of his former fury as he regarded her, and he did not reproach her in the demand of silence as she had expected. On the contrary, the barber looked ready to ask her something in the way of "why", but he could not conceal the furtive flare of insincerity as his fingers traveled coyly to his side to where her death would be certain to follow. She embraced the chance.

Basking in what would be her assaulter's felicity, Mrs. Lovett was fully accepting of the end she would not receive when the barber's hand met nothing in place of his razor. Their gazes locked in the intensity, hers streaked with a liquid shame, and Mr. Todd was never so quick to drop the guise in its entirety to give in to the long-awaited eruption.


	6. Mischief Making and Artful Baking

A/N: Wow…I finally finished it! It seems like it took forever…anyway, I hope you guys like it. I think it's one of the longer chapters. Oh yeah, and does anyone have any propositions on fluffy stuff they'd like to see happen? I'm open to suggestions. Well, I think that's all I had to say…except, maybe, that reviews to me are like food to my dog, if you know what I mean. It comes across like she likes her food more than she likes me… O.o

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Keeping a brisk pace down the squalid filth of a street whose name proved worthless to put to memory, the barber made no discrimination between the raw scum that washed into the waves of perpetual rain and the grunge that walked through it. He himself was considered to be part of that tainted grime, but he himself knew that no one man could do away with the whole of London. There would always be more, he reasoned; no matter how many wars, plagues, and infertile women, there would somehow always be more. That was precisely why none of them would be missed, and how he and Mrs. Lovett alike could get away with their grand scheme; it worked directly through convenience.

Sliding too easily through the oozing mass of the city's unremitting swill, he relished the rain as it pelted the impurities away and plastered his hair to his forehead in lifeless, clumping curls. This was the first time he was allowed outside in weeks, much to his disfavor, and he was certainly making the best of the circumstance. Though what the baker had done was assuredly for his own good, it didn't mean he had to greet the concept with much enthusiasm. He would have struggled against the decree if it hadn't been for the amount of throbbing pain radiating from his neck, or the amount of weakness it served him. If only for a moment, he would have escaped sooner, if it hadn't been for that condemnable woman or that monstrous cat always finding a way to seek out his location before he made it safely out-of-doors. The mere idea of being treated so was enough to enrage his flaring temper, and Sweeney was quite capable of redeeming himself with a retaliating strike. Not that he hadn't been planning the endeavor for weeks already, but it had been made difficult to near impossible in the absence of his razors.

Now, however, drastic measures had been taken to relieve the desperate situation. Clutching the bottle under his coat tighter, he felt the flicker of a smirk start to spread over his expression at the irony. The poison, he was all too sure, would make the compensation worth every drop, though he could have done without the interaction concerning the dull apothecary's sadistic nature. He had to wonder at whether of not it was the same wicked man who was to blame for selling his poor Lucy her own death, and he had itched to kill the miscreant in just that spot for putting a price on such a thing. Alas, he lacked the proper endowment for the task to be completed in its entirety; the deserving apothecary would meet his death within the hour, the cause slipped unknowingly into his pungent drink much as it would afflict the baker in mind. By then, he would have been long since departed with no trace left behind, and the death would not have been mourned.

"Hey, don't you know it's ripe weather to drench a man to the bone, it is?" A shrill voice interrupted his reverie, and he halted his course long enough to glance down at a small boy that held a shining look of liquid concern upon his rounded face as he gazed at the barber. "Where are you headed, sir? Surely you don't mean to go all that way without so much as an umbrella? Here, sir, you can have mine. It won't cost you nothing; I ain't looking for money, sir, I promise! It's just, I hate to see a fellow getting soaked like that, sir, and are you ever…!" The boy offered the device in hand, holding it aloft so that the curved plume at the top was level with Mr. Todd's head, but the barber disregarded the object to shove kindly around the short child and continue on his trek to the pie shop. He was looking forward to seeing Nellie's slow infection, and the antics of this small boy were liable to ruin the moment he'd pursued. Though the child looked after him with a sunken gaze of some sort of hurt, Mr. Todd knew that this minute pain would be quickly forgotten with the smallest distraction to offer.

"Sir…! Sir…! Why'd you walk away like that, eh? That was a right mean thing to do! Haven't you got any manners, there? Well, sir? I ain't gonna stand for any nonsense like that, sir; me sister has pneumonia as it is, and money's hard to come by with Mother and Father being gone like they are. Now, either you're gonna take this darn umbrella or not!" Swiveling on his heel, Sweeney found the boy following after him with as much energy as a small animal, still hanging onto the black umbrella and offering it in some sort of defiance. His persistence could be considered nothing but incriminating, but it left room to question in Mr. Todd's mind. For a faceless stranger, a prisoner in the dark, or a nameless barber…why would this child even bother? The notion came across as preposterous, but it was what his former self would have instantly named a sort of kindness towards others. Out of all this filth, the prospect of selflessness appeared as farcical as his leading a happy life with his own wife and child, and yet he could not deny what he was seeing, nor think of any other reason to explain this boy's dumb obstinacy.

"Not," he growled, seeing that this was a more difficult maneuver than he'd assumed to rid himself of this boy's – as fantastical as it sounded – kindness. The look the kid served him for his rude denial consisted mainly of reproach, and he was followed down the remaining street to the corner, where he stopped to consider the child as it babbled.

"How can you say so, sir? You're positively drenched, you are! I can't believe the rain ain't not missed a spot on you! How much farther are you going, anyway? If it's so much more, then I'd say you were mad! It ain't gonna cost you nothing, I don't see your trouble! Me sister'd be glad to have such a thing for just a couple of pounds, not that it ain't crazy in itself to say such a thing! Any other man, I'd sell it to if they looked like you did just now, and then I could go buy me poor Charlotte a nice, new dress for her and that medicine she's been needing! You'd better be thankful, sir! It's 'cause of mean, old people like you that we're put to work here in the workhouse!"

At that, the barber turned to catch the child in a monumental glare that had him backed up a few steps in the intensity, and Sweeney took a coin to flourish it before the boy's eyes. Surely, there he'd see the greed that had consumed so many before him in the appeal of things that would shine in the light. It was only to be expected of a being living in the modern standard; even he himself was not devoid of the avarice that haunted the population's core, though it was not for the same rampant currency that inflicted the disease. What Mr. Todd actually saw, however, contradicted expectation enormously, and left him in a sense of dull wonder at what it was he was witnessing.

"That's a shiny penny you got there, sir," exclaimed the child. "I'll bet you could buy something real nice if you had any more of those. You do, don't you, sir? I'll bet you could buy something real pretty for your girl if you've got one. You know what? You could get her a ring! Me mum was always so excited to see me dad come home with jewelry and the like. Of course, they're both gone now, I guess, but that's the beauty in it all, see! She was still wearing all them rings when she died! I'm not quite so sure what happened to me dad, now, but…he'll come back one day, just you watch! See, he went out a day so's he could go get that new book me sister wanted and a shave, too, I think…but he never came home. We would have known he was dead if he turned up somewhere, see – the body, that is – but he never did. So I figure he has a reason. He's gonna come back one day, I know it, and he's gonna save me and me sister from the workhouse here and give her that new book, too! I'll bet you anything that's what he'll do!"

Flipping the coin into the boy's face, Mr. Todd swept away before he could be arrested with a thanks and left the child to gape at the money. Looking back, he was tempted into calling over his shoulder: "How about I pay you that anyway, and you keep that umbrella to yourself, eh?" It worked to incite the short boy to at last move away through the crowd, but did nothing to aid Sweeney's thoughts in the qualm that plagued them. Were there really people in the muck of London worth the price of living? It seemed too much to ask.

The familiarity of his destination was welcomed in the grey of the streets' grime, and the barber's thoughts turned once again towards the perishment of a certain Eleanor Lovett. There may well have been people in London still worth living, but Mrs. Lovett certainly was not one of them. He was positive of the conception that it was well worth a small pence to quicken the woman's passage into death – though a tiny bit of his mind begged to differ – and he swept through the front door of the main pie shop with a half-concealed sneering at the image.

A distinct redolence passed through the air to be caught by his senses, carrying the scent of a plethora of spices and baking. He wasn't all that surprised, considering Nellie was one to be perpetually doing something in her kitchen, but it proved mildly portentous that the fragrance was conspicuously foreign to that of anything like the ubiquitous pies. Following his nose across the stuffy room, Mr. Todd found the baker just coming up from bending over a pot, looking well in her element with a dusting of pale flour across her dress and curls, and a smug grin brimming at the corners of her mouth. She didn't appear to have noticed his presence, and went about her business as if she were enjoying every minute of the work that he thought quite hard to find appealing.

This gave way to his noting the rest of her complexion in her abundant jollity, and he discovered in slight astoundment that it came with great relief to see that the visible fatigue of her expression had diminished. It had lingered there about the lines of her face for weeks, and had just now seemed to be receding from the saturnine grey framing her eyes that had her so gloomy for the past few days. In this time, he had found her to be even more so ridiculously obnoxious that beforehand, in her more jovial state, and though his ease was partially unwonted he could at least derive his reasoning from the matter of her being less of a nuisance.

At long last, Mrs. Lovett seemed to have distinguished his current position in her sight, and she started as if suddenly pained following her abrupt realization. Twisting around in an unlikely posture that looked to be fairly cumbersome and inconvenient, the baker managed to gather the resolve in her presumed misery to smile rather bright back into his unsuspecting gaze. A cloud of white dust was shook off her bronze nest of hair as she whipped around again to study the meal set to boiling before her, and once more as she turned to usher a bewildered Tobias Ragg into taking Sidney out of the room lest the cat cause Sweeney any disturbance.

Watching this procession with a growing disinterest, the barber set to staring as his eyes locked onto Nellie, and followed her as she tripped to the doorframe after the boy to give the tabby a good scratch behind its ears. When she turned, the baker was delighted to find him just behind her, and she beamed at him in the supposition that she had done him some great favor. Naturally, this effrontery of assumption was not false, and the barber had to admit that he was glad to have both the apprentice and the cat gone from the room. To him, less pairs of eyes meant a better chance of slipping Mrs. Lovett a well-deserved and painful death in the form of arsenic.

"Well, Mr. T," spoke out the baker. "What're you just standing there for?" She stood back a moment, running her eyes along his every detail before supplying him with another small quirk of the lips in a smirk. "Aren't you going to tell me where you've been? Come on; what do you want, love? It's got to be some old reason you're down here now, eh?"

Thinking it wise not to mention to Nellie her impending doom, Mr. Todd decided to divert the baker's attention with a less precarious subject matter. Dealing out one of his more gracious smiles, Sweeney led Mrs. Lovett by the shoulder back to her kitchen and asked none too gently what in the world she was fixing on burning. To him, the spicy fragrance was all too appealing after a day in the rain, but this was a facet that he was reluctant to admit to even himself. Succeeding a taste of the woman's appropriate skill in her field aside from the monotonous pies, he decided that it wasn't uncharacteristic to find a certain forbearance if not partiality to her ability through his appetite. Even if Sweeney cared little for what foot went into keeping his obligation to life or its taste, he had to concede that it was a grand improvement from her former state of business in its lack of supplies, and a monumental step up from the barely edible nourishment of his Australia days.

She feigned a kind of sarcastic offense at his blunt commentary on her cooking, smirking and clicking her tongue in defense, but obliged to pick up a wooden spoon to stir up her concoction in an effort to keep it from burning as he'd so kindly put it to her. The small amount of humor had faded from her lips long before she made her reply, being replaced by a careful concentration that shone in her eyes and hardened her expression. Mrs. Lovett took the opportunity to glance up at him, and the warmth of the light at her front flickered in her eyes as they bored into him an impatient reluctance.

"This is just a simple stew I've been working on, and it's not ready just yet so you're going to have to wait. Look at you, Mr. T; you're dripping all over the kitchen, you silly man! Out with you! I don't understand why you're down here in the first place, love, so go on and entertain yourself for a while and I'll call you when the time's right. Go on, shoo! Quick now, before you ruin the dinner with all that water! Get yourself a cloth to dry off while you're at it, too, and make sure you're good and dry!"

Her tone was mocking, almost condescending, where her countenance was honest and amicable, and the barber found himself being forced from the room by the woman before he could object. Despite her words, Nellie did most of the drying off for him, hustling off to grab the linen and returning with a vigorous rubbing at his sodden hair. She gave him a quick, almost certainly false, smile before proceeding to loosen his collar, and just when he thought she might try and remove his shirt entirely the baker turned abruptly back through the doorway with the suggestion of getting fresh clothes.

Glad that she had not followed through with his speculations to find the bottle of toxin concealed by his coat, Mr. Todd fought a bitter taste at his tongue in the fact that he wasn't so apt to be rid of the baker's company as she surely believed. In need of time to think up a chance to slip the poison into Eleanor's system, he felt obliged to stall her from her task for just that.

Trailing after Mrs. Lovett back into the atmosphere of her kitchen, the barber stood in impatient observance as she tended to her stew, and he shifted to a point enlarging his visibility upon catching a glimpse of that spark of light dancing around in her inviting gaze. It reminded him of something, tugging on a distant dream in a far-off corner of his mind, but failed to supply evidence as to its presence. It was an odd occurrence indeed for Nellie to look so utterly pleased over something not involving himself as of late, and her apparent state of satisfaction invoked a subtle curiosity in the matter.

Her life was currently at his disposal, whether she knew this or not mattered little, and it troubled him more than it should that she could look so content in her place with the aspect of death threatening her ostentatious existence. If he'd not had his razors so rudely removed by and unknown person – which arose quite an amount of fury at the loss of entitlement – then he might have watched the life drain down across her pale throat long before at a more opportune instant. Being forced into enduring her existence had only led to a revelation that would have haunted him as he sought out death, if he was not so keen on conveniently ignoring the absurd notion.

"Honestly, Mr. T," rebuked the baker. Her griping almost failed to attract his attention, except for that foreign felicity in her flint-colored eyes. "You ought to listen sometime; it'd do you a world of good. Well, then…what do you think you're doing, mulling around down here, love? I told you that you won't find dinner ready for a while now, so you might as well not sulk about around here, now. It'd do you no good. Best be doing something more productive, dear, eh?"

He said nothing, but her suggestion of "productive" echoed across his mind. What was more productive than watching Eleanor suffer for what she'd done, no matter her intention? He would relish the look of pure, unadulterated horror across her pale features upon the realization that something was awry, would savor her dread and her suffering, and though a part of him fought to ask the question of why, he shoved what little presence of mind he had into nonexistence. She deserved her death not because she had lied – though she had, of course, for his sake – but more because they all deserved this fate. All of London, not excluding himself, was in need of something a little more harsh than a good shave. And Mrs. Lovett – she was an ill reminder of a past that need not be remembered any longer. All of them – especially her – had earned their right to the passage of death all the way to Hell.

A sudden vision of a long, black umbrella came to mind, and a small boy who thought nothing of money and seemed wholly selfless in the respect of willingness to give what little he had to another. Of course this child deserved to die in as much a brutal manner as the rest, but Sweeney couldn't' help but let that one perturbing word ask itself into disturbing his scorn. Why? Why did the child appear so worthy of such a fate? It unnerved him when there came no answer to this unspeakable question, and instead the small piece of his mind continued to pick at the crack in his resolve.

What about Johanna? Did she deserve to die, as well? Of course not! Such a preposterous idea had no business in being thought, except it succeeded in rocking more uncertainties into view. If Johanna was to be an exception, simply because of his human partiality towards her, then certainly it was no different than anyone else. Too many people made too many choices – a lot of the time terrible decisions – based on affection. It had seemed to be a very cruel emotion for avoiding him, and so very surreal and nonexistent, but the immediate response to the word was to think of his dear Eleanor.

Eleanor, Tobi, Lucy, and Anthony…who had all acted upon that strange feeling he could only comprehend as a distant longing that had long since grown cold. It had frozen his heart, hardened his tenacity, and blazed a hatred into his determination to draw blood for vengeance.

But vengeance for what…? Had Judge Turpin stood over poor Lucy and forced her to drink to her downfall? No. Not even Mrs. Lovett could be blamed for that. Out of love – love for _him_ – she had mercilessly tried to take her life to ease such a burden.

Whirring around in his head, the thoughts started to click together in a sense of logic that had him wanting desperately to ignore the ideas. He watched absently as the baker stirred at her stew and brushed a light dusting from her palms onto her skirts, wondering also why Nellie still cared for him after he'd purposefully thrown her into the flames of an open oven, and then even leered at her as she'd burned. It wasn't so much that he regretted these actions as he dreaded the answer: out of love.

What of Johanna? Lucy had tried to knowingly kill herself, and it hurt still to think of her pain in his absence, yet why had she done such a thing with their child clearly in need of some type of caretaking? It had been too much to bear for her, and his sense of guilt had long ago ran dry to be replaced by his enmity, but his wife had simply let her responsibilities fall to the wayside. He knew he could not absolve her of every crime, that being hypocritical in itself, but it felt strange to be noticing such a flaw so late. Everything, even Lucy herself, had fallen to Mrs. Lovett, and the baker had done a good job of it until Judge Turpin had yet again stuck his nose where it certainly did not belong.

All of it was out of love, all of it being blind, and how could he say that this deserved death without being contradictory to his own belief? He killed for Lucy and Johanna – his _love_ for them – and how could he kill who harbored the same love within her motives for _him_? It seemed so wrong, though he had ignored any former such warning against murder.

What did it matter? If it was all out of love, then she'd be begging for release by now nonetheless, after lying to him. And he could give it to her. It was what she wanted. It was what _he_ wanted, too, mostly because it seemed unfair for such an article of the past to live when he'd thought that all he'd had would have been destroyed. This realization might have possessed him to hold Mrs. Lovett in a higher regard than before, wanting more to hold on to her than to kill her – had be been Benjamin. As it was, he would rather have forgotten her all over again. Remembering was what had gotten him into such a place and fixed his course that was sure to end in Hell…unlike so many other people.

But Anthony – that was a different matter entirely. He may not have deserved death, but the sailor had ensured it upon himself the day he'd decided to elope with Johanna. Lucy's Johanna. _His_ Johanna. Certainly not Turpin's, or Anthony's, or even Eleanor's though she'd cared for the girl during Lucy's sickness. _Sweeney's_ Johanna was never to be running about with some strangely feminine dock-hand. Her future was to be her own, and not given to some imbecile who thought it a good idea to barge into rooms without knocking – that being very rude already – and shouting out secrets for the unknown occupants to hear. Someone so careless could never belong to _his_ Johanna.

And yet she, too, was a thing of the past. She was not _his_ at all but her own, and Benjamin's. The Sweeney Todd now was only her father in body, his soul being otherwise attached to killing as he saw fit. That, as well, seemed a far-off memory as his revenge had been taken – not without a price – and it prickled a sudden weariness throughout his limbs at the thought of all the innocent, _loving_ men that had been lost at his hand. Despite the fact that he'd picked out men who had seemed capable of not being so easily missed, he now saw this as a mistake, as much of his life already was. Everyone would be missed by _someone_.

Again, the picture of that short, generous boy appeared to him, only this time it seemed to be coming more from behind a haze. That boy would never see his father again no matter how much he hoped for the day he would. His sister – what had he called her? Carlotta? Charlene? Charlotte? – would likely die from whatever disease had been mentioned and life in London would be made perfectly miserable for yet another of its inhabitants. There was no possibility that Mr. Todd was even slightly inclined to share his misery with the rest of the miserable town, and so he sighed in the thought that he'd brought this same type of torture to another. To live day in, day out without purpose – his only purpose being revenge that had now been fulfilled – was madness in the least.

His weight heavy with the onslaught of slow-dawning yet fast-coming revelations, the barber was half inclined to simply remove the vial of arsenic from his coat and drink it himself. Even if he did not die, then he would forget, and what a tempting relief that was. The room around him felt as if to drop temperature all in that same instant, and though he tried to overlook the discomfort, it grew with the steady ache to his head and cool, clinging dampness in his clothes and hair. Biting back a small groan, Mr. Todd eyed the steaming meal set to cooking before Mrs. Lovett in simple respect, hoping that she'd get on with it for two prominent reasons in particular.

The baker appeared to have seen his dilemma at last, though without noticing its cause, and to take pity on his dull state of standing on the verge of collapse with an ample pounding at his temple. She bit back an obvious smirk as she quietly led him to sit near the fire – a position he found himself in quite a lot in recent times – and thrashed a small, wool blanket in the air before tucking it about his shoulders. He suppressed a shiver at the creeping sensation of heat leaking through his sodden limbs and decided in that moment that he did not like the rain.

Suddenly, Mrs. Lovett's suggestion those many months ago of moving to the sea seemed all too sensible in his mind. The woman was clever, practical as always, and he couldn't' help but think that her genius would be duly missed. Of course, the sun and the ocean were not something he favored either, but they were much appreciated in contrast to rain and filth.

"Wouldn't want you catching a cold now, dear, and then giving it to the rest of us. You're liable to catch something dreadful from staying in those clothes, love, and this is a most awful time to be sick. Supper is nigh ready, too, so don't go falling asleep here, either. For Heavens' sake, Mr. T, what on Earth did you do fro 15 years straight?" Eleanor fluttered about him for a few seconds longer, feeling of his forehead and straightening his hair until she was minimally satisfied with his appearance enough to go about finishing her stew.

By this time, the smell of it was slightly intoxicating to the deprived mind, and the barber only found Nellie to be right after she'd already pointing out for him to be falling asleep. Though his mind still actively pursued a train of stable thought, he was thoroughly overcome with the weariness associated with the cold and the wet, the subtle knowing at his stomach, and the sudden warmth supplied by both fire and blanket. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes started to fall shut at the quiet buzzing in his head, but he was quickly snapped to awareness by Mrs. Lovett's observant request. She seemed somewhat amused at his response as she went on watching the fragrant supper that was perpetually almost ready, but Sweeney was no longer in a mood to care what humor he supplied her. It didn't matter, so long as she hurried up and he acquired his chance to slip her the deadly toxin.

In that moment, Sidney took it upon himself to supply Sweeney's paucity of application with a quite unwelcome surprise, and leapt headlong onto the barber's lap where he was apt to be glared at in a condescending fashion. Mr. Todd did not approve of this motion by any means, and the cat seemed to know this since it took the precaution of rubbing itself across any part of him applicable and commencing its repulsive, shuddering purr. This did not prove to pacify him at all, but Sidney continued nonetheless and knitted himself in circles before making himself quite comfortable on the edge of the barber's stiff lap.

Already, his nose was beginning to itch with a foreign pressure, and he proceeded to shoo the beast from his presence by swatting at it rather violently. The animal ripped out a revolting hiss from its depths as it tried to rake its claws across his legs in its decent, but it was a near miss as Sweeney backed away in order to lash out the toe of his boot to send the tomcat reeling through the air a few yards. When it landed, crouching on all fours and showing its teeth, the fur all along its body was puffed out in a display of determined aggression, but Sidney quickly fled to the unseen Tobi as soon as the barber stormed into a standing position.

He stalked a couple of steps after the fleeing cat before wadding the blanket on his shoulders into his formerly occupied chair and finally letting loose the stubborn sneeze that had been threatening on the verge of escape since the condemnable feline had entered the room. Shaking himself past the remnants of a creeping chill left behind by the affliction, the barber redirected his attention to the kitchen upon hearing a loud series of clashing and clattering. It became all too obvious that Mrs. Lovett had somehow knocked over some sort of something-or-other, but just _what_ had hit the floor pricked his curiosity after he caught the faint sound of a few very unbecoming words for a woman to say. They were words he doubted even Anthony knew, being a sailor in his trade, but Anthony also seemed to give the impression of not knowing so very much anyway.

In a painful kind of remembrance, the young sailor seemed to remind him of Benjamin. Though he would surely never show any sort of weakness to the matter, it was a very curious subject simply because Sweeney tried so hard to loathe the boy as he did. He did not hate who he'd been, only who he'd become because of that. It seemed unjustified to feel such a thing for the young sailor who'd tried so hard to rescue his daughter, but then it also seemed unjustified to be murdering the one woman in existence who loved him as he'd loved Lucy.

Even his current explanation of London's deserving to die seemed a little unjustified, seeing as it had recently been proven as a void notion. Neither Johanna nor Lucy had or would deserve death, and there was an uncanny kindness possessed by only a few of the people that redeemed the fate of the rest. The boy with the umbrella came to mind, and Sweeney thought it almost ridiculous to feel the necessity to kill someone who was more likely to end up dead on their own behalf. Rather, it made the barber frown over wondering on how the child would have fared if he hadn't murdered his father – if he hadn't been a murderer, if Lucy were still alive, if the judge had kept to himself, if he'd not been sentenced to life in Australia, if he'd only been a little more observant.

What it all came down to was Benjamin's naïveté, and therefore his deserved death. Perhaps it was why the remaining population under his perspective had such a pressing need for that same sort of death, but now he saw that this was foolish. He himself had earned death, as well as Mrs. Lovett according to law, but both were only victims of the past. This was no one's fault but his own, and he was sick for it with a mind to simply run the poison in his possession down his throat in the hope of forgetting.

Sighing roughly, the barber entered the kitchen in the intention of ending Mrs. Lovett's pitiable existence before the law did, at least. There was no doubt now that the both of them would be caught for their schemes now that someone as important as a judge or beadle had gone missing. It was only a matter of time before the constables became interested enough to trace the breadcrumb trail all the way to his very own tonsorial parlor. There was too much evidence to be missed, because _everyone_ would be missed. It was a foolish thing to consider anything otherwise.

On another thought, he found that he was finding quite a lot of former constants quite foolish. It was precariously close to the level of ignorance his preliminary existence had been a part of, though it seemed to be of a different mindset. It appeared to him then that thinking the world a breeding ground for menace and greed and holding grudges was just as naïve as Benjamin's beliefs of worldwide charity and hospitality. After all, where had either of these gotten him? Of course, it had all been very foolish. He was no different than Benjamin, now, because he had not thought of anything sensible and only of vengeance. And revenge was grand, though it left nothing behind in its wake. It was made of love and had used this up as well until he'd been filled with only one purpose, and numb for it. Of _course_ it had been wholly and plainly stupid, because Lucy would have never agreed to his ideas.

_Life is for the alive_, wasn't that what Eleanor had said? It boded well for those who followed, though he had not. Now, he was truly dead to the world without any kind of motivation at all, and it was certainly too late for anything. The only reasonable thing left to do was wait for the authorities to become the wiser and capture himself and the baker for hanging. Unless he could save them the trouble with an earlier scheduled demise.

Seeing the state of the kitchen as he arrived within view of the catastrophe Mrs. Lovett had produced, that self-imposed demise might take a while longer than expected. It was quite obvious that the poison he'd kept safely hidden had become a less prominent option in the matter after the contents of the hot stew had been spilled out in a chunky puddle across the wooden floor, much like a small version of a polluted lake. The globs of meat floating in the mixture stared up at him ominously as they bathed in the steam emanating from the liquid surrounding them, and Mr. Todd couldn't help but wonder at them. As fingers of the thick stew started to reach out towards him, he finally looked up from the concoction sprawled at his feet to see Eleanor herself balanced with one foot in the former supper and a spoon in hand with a large stain dragging across her front that was just beginning to set in. Where he was concerned, the dark fringed dress was wholly ruined, but he knew better than to doubt Nellie in her domestic value.

Tobias stood across from the placid lake looking down across at it in petrified horror, glancing between the drowned vegetables and his mischievous cat as it lingered around the room. It was all too clear to Sweeney which of the three had started the mess – though Mrs. Lovett did seem the type to trip over her own feet – and so he asked no questions but simply looked on. The culprit had currently occupied itself with licking bits of floury broth from its fur, and it raised its eyes in curiosity when he came to snatch it up and roughly deposit it outside of the kitchen.

Fighting back a sneeze, he swiftly returned to the scene to sent the baker a condescending look as she gave her full attention to remorsing over the loss of her dress, and then to snap at the boy still gaping moon-eyed at the puddle to fetch a mop. Tobi complied in haste, stumbling off to find such a thing and leaving the barber to sweep down upon Mrs. Lovett to wrench her from the sopping disaster and jerk her out of the way. The only resistance he received was an awe-struck and slightly pained gaze, but Nellie stayed in her place until Tobi returned, and then helped the boy to clean up the disorderly mess.

When that had been finished, the baker sent Tobi to find Sidney and take the cat outside, and once the boy was out of sight she moaned at the air before creaking across the room to retrieve a tall tot of gin from a cabinet. Pulling out a small glass, she seemed to suddenly remember the barber's presence and asked wearily if he was in the mood for a drink, but he declined and she went on about pouring herself a large helping coming to stop at the very brim of her glass. This, she drank in three great swallows that he heard even at his distance across the room, and then vanquished two more full glasses with one final, exhausting sigh before draining a fourth a bit slower on her way to sit at a small table near the window. She took the bottle with her as well, leaving Mr. Todd to conclude that she would be a very convincing display of inebriation before very long. It she didn't slow down, he might have had reason to believe he didn't need the arsenic at all.

Taking a second glass from where she'd gotten the first, Sweeney came to join her at the rounded table and sat opposite her as she frowned at the bottle in hand with disdainful interest. If the grimace plastered to her face was anything to go by, then he'd say she didn't care for gin all too much. This premonition was proven likely true when the baker grumbled out a complaint concerning the burning effect of the alcohol on her throat, but he disregarded her mumblings to snatch up the bottle she held and serve himself a glass of the same substance. Its taste, he had to agree, was nothing less of the foulest thing he could have named, but it did well to marginally lighten his abysmal mood and to keep Mrs. Lovett from drinking herself silly.

"Well," said Eleanor weakly, her head propped in her hands. "What do you propose we do now, Mr. T? Supper like what's been cast over isn't likely to be made so easily again, and me patience is wearing awfully thin, especially for that cat. It's a dear, really, but it just can't seem to keep its nose out of where it doesn't belong. Certainly reminds me of some people; likely we've made pies out of a lot of 'em already. You know, I always fancied an animal or two to bring the place the essence of a little more gentility, but I suppose it might as well have been taxidermy. At least, they're less profitable from out own gains that way."

Frowning around his own glass of gin, he watched as Eleanor digressed into a quieter kind of mien. She sipped yet another glass empty – by then, he'd lost count – and he took what was left in order to spare her the intoxication. Together, they finished the entire tot of gin, and Sweeney snatched at the opportunity to offer to pursue the whereabouts of a second bottle. He took both their glasses and left Nellie with the empty container, searching the kitchen for only a few seconds before locating the object of his search. Carefully, he poured out the unequal portions, setting Mrs. Lovett's glass on the left with a lower amount before reaching for the toxin just inside his coat. Once he was sure she wasn't paying him the least bit of attention, he deftly took the cork from the small vial and emptied it smoothly into the glass on the left. Stirring it with a slight shake he sniffed it pointlessly for any traces, but found only the pungency of the vile alcohol.

It seemed almost too easy, and it had him slightly on edge with knowing what Nellie did not. When he returned to the baker – with the bottle as well, so as not to seem suspicious – she accepted her glass gratefully, but sat staring at the rain-speckled window as if she'd seen something of importance. The arsenic-contaminated drink hovered just inches below her shaded lips, and they set in a slight pout as she gazed outside of the framed glass. Just when he was about to look outside as well lest he be missing some point of interest, Mrs. Lovett turned her sad glance to him instead and surprised him by talking, as if he'd forgotten she possessed this ability with being so focused on her latent death.

"It really gets quite, you know, on Sundays. Makes me wish it'd stay this way for awhile, if you know what I mean. Tomorrow's bound to be a busy day, though, what with opening up the shop after so long. I suppose it'd be right to assume that you'll continue your business in the usual way, then?" She looked at him expectantly, peering at him over her untouched glass in a way that prompted him to wonder just what was behind her sudden interest in becoming drunk. Various times he'd seen her late husband in such a stupor as she was trying to get at, but never her. She was always the sensible one, helping Lucy with any household predicament and helping Benjamin with things seemingly more complex. She'd always been very sharp for her stature, and bold enough to catch anyone's attention. He remembered appreciating what Albert must have seen in her, and thinking that she was certainly the strangest woman he would ever meet. IT was not like her to drown her problems in alcohol. Perhaps 15 years apart had changed her more than he'd thought.

Nevertheless, her question made him think. Would he really continue to kill innocent men – men who would indubitably be missed – even after he'd acquired his revenge on the judge and beadle? It seemed to be extremely irrational, especially if Mrs. Lovett were to die soon. Vengeance was no longer an aspect of his life. Whatever he did, it would not be murder anymore. Though if Eleanor were to live – which she _wouldn't_ – then what would she do without the ample supply of corpses he provided? Certainly, it was no concern of his, but he did make a minimal amount considering he killed off most of his customers. Mrs. Lovett would have provided many things, now that he thought about the matter in detail. She cleaned for him, cooked, laundered, went to the marked when needed, and all of the small necessities that he'd overlooked. None of it was required, but all of it would become a difficulty if she were suddenly gone. After all, she provided a roof for his practice.

"If I did not," he asked slowly, obtaining Eleanor's full attention in an instant, "then where would that leave you?" It was an entirely pointless question, seeing as she was soon about to die, but it served enough purpose to distract him from the possibility of impatience or of second thoughts. This was what he had wanted, was it not? He'd dreamt of the day since the moment the first attempt had failed. This was what she wanted too, wasn't it? Hadn't she said such a thing earlier? She'd rather have died in Lucy's place? This, of course, didn't help his conscience at all. She cared enough to risk her life, to work herself silly, to ignore his obvious aggression, and he repaid her with death?

She may or may not have deserved such a fate, but since when had anyone around there gotten anything that they deserved? It was quite the contrary, and made him wonder at not simply following the pattern.

Eleanor challenged his question with a small quirk of the mouth in a sly smile, but this soon faded to be replaced by a more serious expression when she gave the vague reply of "Oh, I've survived long enough that way already. A little more couldn't' hurt." She brought the glass to her lips then, ready to take a large swallow of the tainted drink, but she stopped for a moment as something caught in her gaze, and she took the glass away to tell him what he knew beyond doubt would never have been mentioned had she been slightly more sober in her place. "Of course," she pondered on a mild sigh, "it does help to have someone else around to fight off the sorrow. Lord knows there's enough of it around this place. I mean," here, she smirked, "you really aren't the most companionable, love, but poor Tobi is just so young. It's nice just to talk to someone who understands, dear…even if they aren't listening. But I wouldn't mind that so much so long as you were just there, Mr. T."

Her careful gaze flitted up to lock with his for the smallest part of a moment, but then her eyes were set on the table once more as she at last took a sip of the gin set in her hand. Her face was grim as he watched the subtle movement of the drink sliding down her throat, and he was barely aware his holding his breath and the intensity of his stare. He waited, but she said nothing. It was another moment before he noticed the clear streaks that dripped freely across her pale cheeks, and the liquid depth of her smoldering eyes positioned on his hands that held his glass on the table. He frowned then, watching as her lips trembled and as she remained demure to his searching eyes.

"Mrs. Lovett," he said flatly after about a minute had gone by and still no sign of her giving an explanation for the slight spasms that gave the appearance of shivering, or the quiet hiccups that could be taken as sobs. She snapped her gaze to him fully, looking as if caught in the act of a crime – which wasn't wholly unsuited to the circumstance, though perhaps slightly backwards. Perhaps she'd seen him after all, or figured it out. Though it was highly irrational, it was the thought of a generally guilty mind. She knew. What other explanation?

The baker took an immense breath, blinking so that more of her tears ran down past her chin, and then tried to still herself. Her lips quivered in a frown as she determined herself not to cry, but the look in her eyes was of such an utmost pain in its unfocused and maddening depression that the barber was inclined to ask the matter. Any other time, her sniveling would be simply aggravating, but now it mirrored his own torment to such an exact measure that he pitied her as he resented himself. Could she be blamed? The sudden change of mind made his head begin to ache – or perhaps that was the gin.

"Bloody gin," Eleanor choked. "I know I'm drunk, Mr. T." She sniffed, standing, and wobbled off balance in a way that had Sweeney expecting for her to end up on the floor before sinking on top of him with a tight embrace to his neck. The baker cried openly onto his shoulder, and he sat in slight shock with an underlying repulse. Though it was quite impossible to shrink away from her warm touch while sitting in a chair, he tried his best to become as still as possible. Whatever had her so upset surely did not call for her sitting on his lap like any common whore, though he knew she was inebriated and distraught. He wished feverishly that she would not make a point of being so close, but in the least it seemed suitable to endure long enough to entertain the possibility of her dieing.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Todd," Nellie confessed in a cracking tone. "I don't know how many times I have to bloody say that, but I'm so sorry. I don't know what you want of me past death, but name your price. You know I love you, and I can't stand the way you look at me, Mr. T. Lucy's gone! I can't change that, but you must know I regret it. I know it's too much to ask, but please…do you hate me so much? I've already given you everything, what more do you want? I'm sorry! You horrible, horrible man, I'm sorry!"

It was so unlike her that he knew that she was truly intoxicated, and desperate. As much as it disgusted him, he felt justified at least by her death. If death was a justifiable cause. The judge had deserved every pain given, but Mrs. Lovett…she was an unfortunate victim to the cruelty of fate. It had never been his intention for her to fall in love with him, and he wondered how Benjamin would have dealt with the circumstance. Surely not by trying to kill the last person in London who still cared about him.

"Of course you are," he sneered back, and Eleanor held onto him tighter despite his harsh words. She clung to him like despicable filth, shaking as if it were suddenly winter. Sighing at the situation, he found no good way out unless he was able to console the baker in her sorrow. It would not be an easy task, but it would pay off in her remaining presence until she drank the last of her poison. Certainly, she'd lost all discretion by then. "Stop this," he tried, but it served no purpose except to go unheard.

If that wasn't enough to frustrate him, then the cat Sidney suddenly appeared to haunt him in this torture. The tomcat seemed to laugh at his predicament, and it leapt casually to the table in order to taunt him properly by lashing its tail high enough to knock both glasses of gin to the floor. With a devastating crash, the glass shattered at his feet, and the cat streaked away at the noise, leaving him to resent the beast more than ever. The alcohol, arsenic and all, seeped across the floorboards to mix in with the dust underfoot, and he cursed under his breath at the now useless attempt of arresting Eleanor's life.

Just as simple as a flick of the cat's tail, the murder went to waste. And now the cursed beast was back, pawing and licking at the drink spread across the wooden floor with interest. In spite, he kicked at it, and felt a satisfying hiss underneath his foot as the vengeful cat slid backwards and scuttled away in haste.

"Mr. T…!" Eleanor exclaimed, her voice stifled by his shoulder. She looked up just after she'd said it, staring after the retreating Sidney in something resembling horror, and then switched her gaze to him in a watery inquiry. "Why did you do that, now? You don't need to harm the poor thing!" The baker looked as if she truly believed what she was saying, and it irked him that she would choose the side of Tobi's beast over his own. Numerous times the monster had tried to hurt the barber, and yet retaliation only resulted in being scolded at by Nellie herself.

"The bloody cat knocked over your glass!" he defended, protesting against Eleanor's flawed logic. He turned to narrow his eyes on her ignoble appearance, but the conception went to waste as he found her anguished countenance hovering just below his own glowering stare, a mere breath apart from his lips, and her eyes wide as they fixed upon his glare. A couple of renegade tears trickled down across her reddened cheeks, but for the most part she had become uncannily quiet and unnaturally still. He could feel her tense in his proximity, and it was only then that he fully processed the fact that almost every inch of her body was pressed against his own, and that the only thing that separated them were a scant few layers of fabric. This notion became alarmingly prominent when the baker let loose a sudden, lingering shudder, and he felt the motion quake in his own bones.

Rather abruptly, he began doubting his patience in capitulating to her fast becoming unbearable presence that incited the predisposition of forgetting. For all of the few moments it took to regain the element of surprise she'd taken his guard with, he experienced the very foreign oblivion induced by a sudden blankness of mind, and in those moments he knew nothing but the subtle feeling of vigor without bloodshed or vengeance. When it all came rushing back, it hit him with the certainty that he never wanted to forget ever again, because forgetting was one step closer to forgiving, and once he forgot he'd find it most convenient to never remember. If there was only one thing that could strike a semblance of fear into the barber, it was the prospect of not remembering.

"I'm glad you care, if that's what this is," Mrs. Lovett said into his ear, scattering his thoughts, "but there's more gin, love, and more glasses to go along with it. That was no way to treat a defenseless animal such as that poor cat, you should know. I would expect better from you, at least. Cat's aren't people, dear." She rubbed at her eyes with the netted lace over her knuckles, sniffing discontentedly, but did no more except to mumble something along the lines of "I don't think I'm feeling too well" and drop her head back down to his shoulder with a slight moan. It gave him a bit of amusement to see her in such a way when it was all too evident just why she would be feeling so unwell, but the little amount of humor faded abruptly at his remembering that she _had_ drank a part of the arsenic given her.

Surely, it wasn't enough tot kill her just yet? The badgering worry that it might have just been enough convinced him to inquire as to her health. The question no doubt surprised her, for she looked up in bemused interest, but it concerned him far more than her cared what was expected of him. If she died just now, then it would make remembering all that more difficult, and forgetting even more dangerous. IF she died now, then he would have to kill Ragg as well. If Eleanor died just then, it would mean ending his own life – for that was ultimately what he planned to do, it being too late to live and him having no purpose – would become even closer on the horizon, and he knew that death for him certainly did not mean a reunion with Lucy.

Torment in life or torment in death, neither seemed all too appetizing, but torment alone seemed impossibly intolerable to the point of being driven far past mad. Here in life, he was slammed with the realization that as long as Eleanor lived, then he was the closest he would ever be to not being alone. In Australia he was carried on with the hope that he'd on day be able to see his lovely wife and endearing child once again, but now that all hope was dead, it appeared that the only hope that could ever have existed would now rest in Mrs. Lovett. Not because she was so special to him, not because he was fond of her in any way, not even because she'd suffered a similar injustice as he, but because they shared a connection through their treachery that held them responsible for one another in one of the worst ways. As soon as he realized this, it forced him to finally look past the denial to agree, at last, that it would neither be simple nor smart to kill Eleanor Lovett. It would be another step away from Lucy. And this, more than anything, made Sweeney truly hate Nellie then, for all that had happened and for the senseless way he seemed to depend on her.

"I don't know, love," came her innocuous reply. "My head's probably up there swimming with them clouds, but the sickness is in my gut. It's upset over something – all that gin, I'm sure."

Sweeney had a rather different idea of what ailed her besides the gin, but he did not say so. Instead, the barber hoped for both of their sakes that whatever he'd done didn't kill her. Of course she didn't deserve it – he accepted that, now – and though he wished she did, possibly so it would stay the unfamiliar feeling of a quiet guilt, he knew it was useless. Deserving, as he well knew, had nothing to do with it.

As soon as he'd been made aware of a worrisome sweat lining her brow, Nellie's beloved apprentice came tumbling into view, calling for the contemptible beast to blame for saving Mrs. Lovett's life. The boy catapulted himself into the room, charging for the door and stopping to ask if they'd seen Sidney and to tell how sorry he was about letting him get away, but he stopped completely upon noting the way Eleanor was poised on the barber's lap: a very intimate gesture to unknowing eyes. Suspicion flashed clear across young Tobi's face as he stepped closer towards the rare scene.

Not trusting Mrs. Lovett to speak for herself in her state, Sweeney spoke for the both of them when he said, "Now, lad, I think you know better than to interrupt a thing like this. Sidney is the one responsible for the mess you see there. Clean it up if you must, but later. I don't know where your pet is, but I think it'd be wise to say he's not here." The look he sent the boy was enough to make up for the urgency his tone lacked, and though it looked as if Tobi wanted to do or say more on the matter, he was defeated by his won fear and dearth of knowledge on the subject. Trudging noisily out of the room, the apprentice left with the eyes of Mr. Todd on his back, following his departure until his final exit.

What attracted his attention away from the incorrigible boy was the gentle sigh from the woman in such close proximity, and the murmur of her breath hat made its way past his neck. Turning to regard her as she shifted on top of him, he had the tempting impulse to dump the baker on the floor, but sense stopped him from following through with this urge. She clung to him in a way that presented to him her capability of inflicting pain with her nails in the skin of his neck, but he ignored the biting stings and the provocation to cringe enough to concentrate on her and the way she seemed to be diminished into some sort of lingering process on the edges of consciousness. Her face, at this point, was devoid of all color and was almost pasty in its appearance. Her lips were parted an blanched, and her clouded gaze was half-lidded as she loosened her digging nails from his flesh to curl her arms around his neck in a whispered, inaudible apology. Even half-conscious, she was still thinking of him, which was more than thinking of herself. Out of common predictability, he shouldn't have been surprised.

She gave a quiet protest when he hauled her to her feet, and leaned on him heavily with almost all of her might, but he ignored these to lead her carefully to the door, and then outside to the edge of the street in the bitter air. No one was around to see her – as predicted – when she suddenly caught his shoulder in a cobra grip and forced him to his knees alongside her as she knelt and retched, coughing and gasping, onto the squalid stones of the street. He held her steady by her own shoulders and waited impatiently in mild disgust until she had finished, and hoped that it had gotten rid of the foul poison he'd placed in her.

The baker glanced at him as she stood, shaking with the slight effort and her chest moving rapidly for oxygen within the containment of her corset. She held onto his arm with both lace-covered hands as he tried to tug her back in the direction of the shop, but no sooner had he taken a step than a silent gasp signaled him to turn again just in time to catch Eleanor as she collapsed in a grace that landed her, without fail, directly into his arms. Her bronze head rested lightly against his chest as he held her aloft, unresponsive to his support and with her eyes shut. No sooner had he caught her than the prospect sent a dizzying amount of panic flooding into his mind, enough to leave him unstable and toiling to bring Mrs. Lovett back inside, for surely she was dead. The thought forced him to grit his teeth in the unwelcome frustration, and he dropped Nellie's body on the floor next to the hearth past the shop, wondering what was to happen next. Would he kill Tobias? Or simply end his own life?

Staring down at the baker, with her head angled to the side and a copper ribbon of hair managing to position itself just across her upper cheek, Mr. Todd was flogged with the impression that Eleanor could now be considered beautiful, having died for his cause and having kept him from forgetting or going mad with the possibility. By far less attractive than his late wife, but still considerably beautiful in her own measure. It was a compliment he didn't give out frequently; as of yet, there were now only two women worthy of its praise. Mrs. Lovett, at least, was different from the rest as Lucy had been, but of course she simply didn't compare to the majesty of his wife.

As the first shock of panic faded into acceptance and the barber still stared down at his accomplice, the realization slowly set in that his premonitions were more than likely false ideas born of the moment. A moment longer, he stared, before finally crouching beside the baker and hastily whisking the russet-colored strand from her face to watch for the tell-tale signs of life. Within seconds, he'd picked up the subtle movement of her breathing, and now he could see his first conception as fully ridiculous. It must have been relief that loosened his own breath into a sigh, but for what he was not certain.

At any rate, he could leave Nellie to lie cold on the hearth. Shuffling bearably closer and deftly sweeping her up, Mr. Todd decided to ignore the way her forehead collided with his shoulder and walked as brisk as possible in long, gaping strides to dump Eleanor's limp form heavily onto the soft quilts of her bed. The mattress gave under her weight and his as he leaned there a moment, and it bounced lightly when he dropped his burden. The encumbrance herself was as quiet as one of the corpses she frequently butchered into her famous pies, and as still as he'd expect of one as well. This bothered him in an underlying kind of irk at the back of his mind, but he paid this little attention and dismissed it almost as soon as it came.

With this knowledge in mind, Sweeney distanced himself towards the door. It was only then, in the midst of his act of departure, that another thought struck him: he was in Mrs. Lovett's room, the only one he'd not checked to look for his stolen razors. What better opportunity? It was only one of two that could have taken them, and for one the best spot would likely be here. He planned on a grand reunion involving the culprit, whichever they were – but his first problem, he found, was actually locating his silver tools. Before then, he could do nothing. Accusations, he was sure, would lead to a more complicated search. Now, he was positive he would find his friends.

Taking a long glance about the clutter lining the space, the barber scoffed at the lack of organization by a clearly organized woman. Carefully picking his steps around the floor, patched with piles of Nellie's accumulating junk, he knew it'd be a wonder if his attempt was fruitful on the beginning round. The first place he chose to start was beneath the mattress where he stuck his arm up to his shoulder to feel for anything peculiar. What a surprise it was when his fingers crossed paths with something smooth and rectangular, that it seemed a miracle. In a flurry of celerity, Mr. Todd clutched at the object to drag it out, but soon saw that it was much too flat to be the object of his pursuit.

Pulling out a book bound in blue-colored thread alternatively, he gazed at the cover curiously. It was intriguingly blank, and seemed quite worn around the edges. It occurred to him soon after inspection that whatever Eleanor would put below her mattress was certainly something she would want to hide.

Without another thought on the matter, Sweeney promptly looked past the unlabelled exterior to the first page.


	7. What Fancy Dress for Such A Mess

Technically, I wasn't planning on posting this until sometime after this weekend...but I thought you guys deserved it. This was the one chapter my friend actually got excited about and 'squeed' over, so there must be something good in it, eh? You could call this the flashback chapter... Cheers! Reviews make the world go round!!

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It had been coming for months, because months before that he'd set his eye on that place above their shop and kept it there. Of course, everyone knew that the space above Mr. Lovett's butcher shop – where she sold meat pies on the side – was vacant and open for rent. There had naturally been rumors on why it had remained so for such a long time, considering a place such as this was liable to get snatched up within the first month. _Not_ everyone knew that Albert had actually already partially sold the place to that penniless, freelance barber from the western side of London. Not a soul could have suspected that the barber would soon be coming into a large sum of inheritance, verified only by marriage to one of the city's prettiest, wealthiest, and most air-headed women. _He_ seemed not to have noticed this last fact, however.

So when the grand day finally arrived, all the preparations possible had been made, and the magnificent, elaborate decoration had all been erected in the center of the park, half of London had come to gather and gossip about the unexpected event. The few dozens of relatives, friends, and landlord with accompanying wife had suddenly turned into a procession of hundreds, or so it seemed, all come to watch the union of two giddy, young souls.

Picking up the passing flute of champagne as the opportunity came, Eleanor sipped secretively at the golden liquid as it tickled down her throat. She knew, without a doubt, that she would need it. Even with the alcohol, it was probably going to take all she had and more not to sob as if it were a funeral instead the instant Benjamin said those two, silly words that meant her chance was lost for eternity. Perhaps the rest of the assembled crowd wouldn't notice if she cried a _little_ – it was a wedding, after all – but she was sure that Mr. Barker would know her better than that. That is, if he ever took his eyes off of his betrothed.

The baker didn't get to ponder that thought much longer before she felt the hem of her dress being tugged at by a rather irksome force. At first, it was so gentle that she hardly noticed it, but the sensation quickly escalated into an uneven jerking that took her by surprise and caught her off-balance. When she looked down, ready to put it to one of the children that she didn't have the time of day – softly, of course – she found nothing but the grass beneath her feet. This frustrated her more than it confused her, but all of her annoyance quickly dispersed when a silk-dressed arm hastily snaked about her waist and stealthily dragged her, rather forcefully, around the tree at her back. All at once, she found herself staring into the beaming face of Benjamin Barker, still with his hand on her waist and his eyes boring into her own.

"Where were you?" he asked sharply, failing terribly at sounding all that stern with the same exuberant grin lingering across his features. "I think I've seen the backside of every tree in this park looking for you, and I could have sworn you'd be with Mr. Lovett. Have you seen Lucy yet? Has she said anything? She's not having second thoughts, is she?"

He was so close she could have kissed him just then and there, and she longed to do just that. Had it been any other time, she would have because she knew now that she couldn't stand the thought of being too late as she was. It left her in a predicament, because if she'd never married Albert, then she would have never met the man that held her so unknowingly uncouth now as he leaned back against the tree trunk and smiled. She smiled back, because it was all she could think of to do.

The longer she stood there, the more hopelessly ridiculous she felt as they both stood and grinned at each other all the while like two fools. Slowly, trying to disperse the odd, fuzzy quality the world around her had taken on, Eleanor blinked across at Benjamin while he remained frozen in his blissful state. As her thoughts began to arrange themselves again and attach themselves to words, she shook her head to emphasize the point she made when she whispered out her voice, partially for fear of their being caught, and partially from the sheer effect of the situation playing out before her.

"Lucy…?" she echoed the word as if she'd never heard it. She wished she hadn't. "No, I haven't seen her all day. I'm sure she's not having second thoughts, though, Mr. B. It's a girl's place to worry on her wedding day, but never about any of that, now. Anyone in their right mind wouldn't leave you for the world, love, I assure you. Best not to fret over it, or it'll upset the mood. You're both going to be positively glorious."

As she said it, she lent him a firm touch to the shoulder and tried her best to keep the smile she'd found so easy to come by just a minute before. If possible, his own wide grin spread even bigger, and he lunged forward in an instant to embrace her for just a short while – clutching to her like his life depended on such a gesture – before holding her at arms' length to look over her flustered face. Without a doubt, the action had startled her. It wasn't so much that she minded it – for certain, she'd sell her soul to be able to hold to him again, perhaps never letting go – but that it simply wasn't expected of a man on his wedding day. Surely, he'd never been so familiar with her before in all her life.

"Nellie Lovett," exclaimed the barber, remembering to drop his voice a little late. "Indeed, you are a wonder! If it weren't for times like these, I'd swear you could be born a man instead, but surely I don't know what I'd do without you. I know you haven't seen Lucy as much as you might like, but I'm positive that you'll make wonderful friends after all you've done for me alone. Oh, God, what's she wearing? Beautiful, I'm sure. I can't stand it, Eleanor: this waiting. I don't know whether to laugh, or cry, or both, or neither! Is that champagne? How did you come by _that_ before it started? Tell me, how do I look? I'm certain this all makes me look to plain, or old."

As he fixed her with so many questions, the ecstasy radiant about his face, she couldn't help but laugh. When he mentioned the champagne, all but forgotten in her hand, it also jolted into memory the reason why she needed it. The laugh stopped abruptly, but she held the grin in place so that Benjamin didn't even notice. The barber was busy enough simpering back at her, more likely than now imagining something to do with Lucy.

"Ahh, Mr. B, that's nonsense!" she chided lightly, travailing to keep the quiver from showing up in her voice. "You don't look plain at all – by no means – and certainly not old! If anything, love, then that outfit looks plain next to a man like you! I'll warrant that your bride will swoon on the spot the instant that she lays eyes on you! You look positively stunning, dear, and don't tell yourself otherwise." It was all very true; Eleanor herself had swooned at the sight of him. She had yet to knock the remnants of the lightheaded sensation away, and could still feel her stomach doing funny things on her inside. That breathtaking smile offered no help whatsoever, and his excitement to see her – even the fact that he'd been _looking_ for her – had her absolutely bursting with that gratifying elation.

Mr. Barker looked somewhat taken aback by her description of his appearance, and it took him a moment before he finally resorted to shaking his head at her, his smile widening tenfold. "You're too good to me, Nellie. I don't see why you bother. I'm sure Lucy is going to assuredly adore you. I don't know how she could not." He grinned his perfect grin at her – she didn't know a moment when he was _not_ smiling – and wrapped his arms around her again, perhaps even tighter this time.

Between the barber and her corset, all the air had been flattened from her lungs, and she didn't seem to be able to pull it back. Yet, for all her lack of oxygen, she'd be more than willing to stay in this position whether or not she would faint. After today, it would be the least of her worries. The way she savored that proximity in secret was enough to plant a firm root of guilt on her mind, but she tried to dislodge it before it could persuade her into doing something she'd later regret – something like crying in front of Benjamin.

The barber let go of her all too soon, chuckling under his breath, to take her by the wrist and lead her away from the back of the tree that hid them. Before she could even ask where they were going, he looked back towards her with a finger to his smiling lips to silence her, and continued to drag her away from the immense wedding. She fretted at him in silence over his potential of ruining his clothes as they walked in the woods, but the trees quickly dispersed to reveal to them a path which they took, and he dropped their connection in an absent manner that was all too quick in her eyes. Now, he walked listlessly down the marked trail at a slug's pace, her trailing along beside him, and sighed in what appeared to be relief. Studying him as he glanced coyly back to her, the baker now presumed it safe to question him and break the silence.

"What on Earth do you suppose you're doing?" she huffed. He only snickered in answer. "This is _your _wedding, you silly man! Are you implying that you don't want to be wed?"

His muffled humor came to a halt, and he blinked across at her in surprise, as if this prospect had not even crossed his mind. "No, no!" he quickly protested. "Of course I do! I mean, of course I want to marry Lucy! I just needed to get away from that atmosphere, Eleanor. It was making me nervous. I kept thinking things. What if something went wrong? I'm fine, though. Dear God, it's supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life! Are you going to be wanting the rest of that?" He eyed the flute of champagne held idly at her side in a desperate sort of interest, and she relinquished it almost immediately.

Draining the drink from her glass without hesitation, he held it by the tips of his fingers as they walked on, and the breeze sang through the empty container. She could tell that he was wishing that it was something stronger, but it was all she had to offer, and he seemed grateful despite the meager quality. He walked in mild satisfaction, still jittery, and it occurred to Mrs. Lovett that neither of them had any inkling where the path they walked was taking them.

"Was it like this on your wedding day?" queried Benjamin, looking up at the azure of the sky as the clouds stretched and floated in languor across its great expanse. He didn't look at her, so he didn't see how the simple question had shocked her, but it took the baker a long enough time to gather her wits to answer. In that time, he switched his gaze down to the ground underfoot, but his glance hovered over her face in such a way to make her cheeks flood with a vigorous heat when she didn't answer.

"Not at all," she replied briskly, staring at the man across from her. His pondering eyes, rich as the color of chocolate, traveled up to meet hers as she tried not to gape, wondering herself why his question had surprised her so. At once, she dragged her gaze back to her feet and anchored it there, still feeling her breath coming short at such a knock for a loop. "Ours was much less grand, you must understand, and I don't think even my Albert looked as marvelous as you. Honestly, love; you look absolutely dashing. It rained that day, anyway; it was nothing as wonderful as today's weather. Of course, ours wasn't outside like this, either. This is much nicer. Should've thought of that myself."

They lapsed back into a loaded silence, where all that was audible were their crunching footsteps and the twittering of the birds that surrounded them. Mr. Barker seemed to be on the verge of putting a comment to her answer, but he did not speak despite the clarity of his desire to do so. He walked at a very unsafe distance from her by her own standards, so that she was proven right when in the next second his hand brushed across her own in a careless accident that wasn't even registered in his mind as it caused her to cross her arms to hide the unexpected chill-bumps.

"And did you cry?" he asked at last. It set her up for another jolt as the words left his mouth, but she disguised her sudden awe from him this time as he awaited her reply in patience. She supposed the questions surprised her because she didn't expect him to be concerned about her, of all people, on the one day that was his. The knowledge affected her in a strange way, but Nellie took care to swallow the feeling before she could get too carried away.

"A river," Eleanor stated bleakly. The barber watched her earnestly, quirking an eyebrow at her truthful answer. "…comparable to the Thames." She could imagine it might be hard for anyone who hadn't witnessed her frequent sobbing over falling in love with someone who would never return the sentiment to believe from her outward appearance that she might cry at all. As only she would know, her emotions were a combatable force. Often, she could get lost in them, and it gave her the edge of a fiery temper along with an oversensitivity. For favor of saving herself the trouble, however, she tended not to show these things.

Benjamin rose both of his eyebrows, then, and his deft smirk quickly grew into something more. His teeth glinted in the illuminating sun as he gave her a sly glance, and his disbelief found words when he told her that she ought not to have cried as much as Lucy, or he'd start to think her an actual lady. The jab at her femininity worked to irritate her, but she couldn't help but grin back.

The moment led her to do something entirely ghastly for her age, making her feel indisputably immature for all of a few seconds. As Benjamin chuckled at his own remark, she rebuked him by turning to stick her tongue out at him like a child, but the freedom in the action was well worth it. Even Mr. Barker seemed not to mind – in fact, he appeared to be very much amused – and she was truly humored and relieved when the barber decided to return the gesture whole-heartedly, looking every ounce as immature as she as he completed the effect with a dramatic leaning forward and waving of the arms.

They struggled to keep in their mirth for as long as possible, and Mrs. Lovett was gratified when the barber burst before her. She dissolved soon after him, stumbling and catching herself in the laughter, but she hardly noticed as she was too busy immersing herself in the hilarity of the moment. She was sure the birds had been terrified silent by their loud chortling and sniggering, but she couldn't care less as she found a certain relief in the humor. As her mind was still wrapped around the image of Benjamin as he imitated a five-year-old boy, it was easy to forget what day it was, or even where. It felt good to be laughing alongside Mr. Barker, and as long as she could she didn't let the giggle die in her throat. The release from her usual, tense sorrows was overwhelming, and helped her to cackle madly even louder than before. And Benjamin was right alongside her.

It was a long while before they caught their breath again, still with a few renegade chuckles slipping through, and it kept her smiling to know that whatever had been so funny in the first place could hardly even matter anymore. The barber beside her let out a whoosh of breath before inhaling deeply through his nose, and she felt herself do something similar as they both still grinned wildly at each other. Whatever had tormented her before was gone for the moment, and she wished it good riddance as she felt a peace in the air around them. The ground beneath her feet bounced her forward in the air, and her breath was lighter as the sun looked down upon them warmly. Whatever may have happened before and whatever may happen after, Eleanor was positive that she wanted to remember this exceptional, stolen moment for as long as she lived – even forever, so long as she never forgot. It would be the atypical phenomenon she could look back on, after Benjamin was married and long gone and her heart was still attached to him.

Breaking through the euphoria, the barber's smooth voice washed over her as he slid into step beside her once more after the interruption that set him behind. "Mr. Lovett is a very lucky man indeed," his voice said casually. "I do hope he realizes what he has. I'd hate for it to go to waste… I know Lucy is more than I could ever hope for, and I couldn't love her more. Your husband, Eleanor, should certainly feel the same way about you. If he doesn't, then it's a shame. You do make the best pies in London, after all. You should think about starting up your own business, you know, to go along with Mrs. Mooney's. I'm sure Mr. Lovett would have enough meat."

The blush couldn't reach her face fast enough at such unexpected words, but however great the commendation, her heart fell into a familiar despair at the implications – that this was the best he could do. He was certainly her friend, but he was absolutely nothing more. Of course, the conception of anything more had never even occurred to him at all. The barber would have been most accustomed to loving Lucy, and would have never looked at her in the way she desired by then. It was, obviously, a lost cause. He was due to be married – that very day.

He talked of pies and businesses, but what good would that do her? She asked herself: would he even dare to care after today? Her last fleeting hope was gone the second he exchanged vows, and it was a shame. She was too young to be so lost, and with a husband who truly cared far more than her Benjamin ever would. It was not fair for Albert, who loved her as much as she had settled for _him_. At the time, she'd not even met this Mr. Barker, but here she was a few years later madly in love with a lost cause. It seemed to be the only thing worth fighting for, even if the fight was less than disheartening and her strength was slipping. Her desire was a hopeless, connubial concept, contrived from her frivolous imaginings and doomed to be scattered by Benjamin's own conjugal desires.

The barber at present looked across from her with an uneasiness in his presentiment the longer she remained silent, and he was in confusion at her distraught appearance. She glanced to him as well, but moved her eyes elsewhere as he continued to stare with subtle vexation. To him, this was nothing but a moment in passing, but to her it was undoubtedly one of the best and worst moments of her life. The baker struggled to keep her emotions contained beneath her surface, as she knew Mr. Barker was watching. Who was she to ruin what should be the best day of _his_ life, even to taint it with the slightest bit of grief over her undisciplined dolor?

"Something is wrong," stated the barber gently, his face still contorted in his bafflement. "Eleanor…? What is it?"

Continuing to avoid his gaze, Nellie had to admit that he was less oblivious that she gave him credit for. That, at the moment, came as a rather unwarranted detriment to her situation. She turned her head so he would not see the liquid in her eyes, nor notice as it burned a path down across her skin. It was something she'd been prepared for, knowing it had to come sooner or later, but nothing could stop the tears that ripped jagged trails down her fiery cheeks, or the agony of the sudden jabbing pain in her chest. Was this heartbreak? She couldn't be sure. She only knew that it hurt, and that her lungs were dying for a breath of the air that seemed so impossible to trap there. It was like a dull ache penetrating her core, anticipating itself shredding its way out from the center of her chest and blurring her vision.

He was going to be married. Benjamin Barker would be united at the end of the day with the new Lucy Barker. They were going to live just upstairs. They were to be married. _Married_. Her last hope, the fighting cause she'd already lost before she even found, was to be rended from her weakened reach by the set course of the happiness of the man she loved through a marital rite insuring her failure. He was to be married. She had failed. He was happy. She was torn between the two conflicting snares as they gnawed on her resolve; the baker wanted him to be happy more than anything, but this time his happiness inflicted her with the very opposite.

_Married_. The thought soared round in her mind, enlarging itself into a single concept of woe that had her wondering that marriage was most definitely a terrible affair. How could it not be, the way it seemed to demolish her every memory of anything joyous. Even that very moment, a moment so precious, was seized from her pry as something awful. It was simply not _fair_. Marriage was cheating her out of a clear sense of reputed purpose, and left her with a destitute sense of powerless defeat.

"Eleanor!" demanded the voice of her pain. "How do you mean, by going on like this? Nellie, you're crying! Good God, what's the matter with you? Will you tell me? Nellie…?" He stood to block her path, his bewildered eyes boring through the torment that hammered on her so violently, and she looked up with a start. The barber stepped closer, and she felt the need to both recoil from and jolt herself closer to him as he placed a cautious touch to her elbow.

He was concerned. She could see it – in his eyes, on his lips, in his touch, ringing in his words…for that whole moment, she was sure he thought only of her. His focus was solely on _her_. Not Lucy. Not marriage, or the occasion of his matrimonial union. For that moment only, the damage in her core was alleviated.

And then it came again, in full force. It felt like she'd kicked herself in the stomach. The nausea was overpowering, and his eyes were like beacons lighting her suffering. Her vision was flooded, and her muscles were unresponsive and shaking. The voice with which she spoke was not her own.

"Mr. B, you're to be _married_! It's really going to happen, love." She smiled, feeling like it might shatter her face in the process. "Oh, it's going to be wonderful! You're going to have to tell me all about it; you must. How does it feel?"

For an eternity, it appeared that it was all he could do to stare and not gape like a fish. Disbelief was the dominant feature of his expression, coupled with awe, and this new intensity of the barber's attention had her breath coming just as quick as it went. The tears still streamed an unstoppable current down her cheeks, but Nellie kept the grin held in place even as they seeped down across her lips and into her mouth. The taste was bitter on her tongue, giving her the urge to spit it out, but the baker dismissed the impulse lest it draw attention to her charade's untruth.

"How does it…" he choked on the sentence, his brows pulling together in a display of bewilderment. "Eleanor, I don't follow you. You're crying…"

"Because I'm happy, Mr. Barker, because you're happy. It's all so very much, love. You're to be wed today! She's the woman you love, and she has to love you doubly as much, I'm sure. Who could not?"

This made his smile return, and it fixed her stomach into leaping into her throat. It did nothing to aid in halting the grief that wreaked havoc on her resolve not to cry, and the subtle gasp that escaped from her lips had Mrs. Lovett scrambling to stop herself before she fell apart completely. Her muddled senses allowed for her to at least take in a large breath of the insubstantial air that surrounded her, and it was a long time before she felt safe enough to relinquish her hold of it.

"You always know what to say, Nellie," he mused gently. "Really, though, how many times must I tell you to call me by my name? What you're doing sounds so formal I feel as if you're addressing a stranger and not a friend." He surveyed her in interest as she bit her lip and studied the ground underfoot, and then pulled her into a light embrace about the shoulders. "Would you mind to stop crying? That doesn't sit well with me, today…it's _my_ job. Besides, Nellie, since when do you cry?"

Swallowing at the rising sensation to scream making its way slowly up her throat, the baker sighed as she felt Benjamin's arm snaking around her shoulders. His words had her in plain incredulity at the fact that he'd even noticed, and in enlivenment for his suggestion. He'd noticed, and he cared. It was more than she could have hoped for, and a small part of her felt guilty for doubting him so, but she knew she'd never adhere to his proposal. He'd have to continue telling her, and she'd have to continue ignoring his tempting proposition; his name on her tongue felt like a bitter-sweet confession, and she feared that he'd notice such a thing without the added rite of civility.

"Since you," she answered vaguely, her tone sounding strangled. It caused him to look across at her with an air of skepticism, and then he chuckled modestly as he distanced himself from her under her recovery. Her tears had dried, though her eyes still burned, and for all outward appearances she looked like any normal wedding guest that was strolling suspiciously along through the woods with the groom. Inwardly, she was still trying to shake the feeling of a growing void as it tried to suck her in alongside any of her former joy, and tried to concentrate on the glad moment of Benjamin's proud enthusiasm over his wedding. This day was for him, and the distinct feeling remained that she was ravaging it into ruination.

"Well, it's a pleasure to be the sole cause of the first time you've cried in years. You certainly know how to make someone feel guilty, Eleanor. Perhaps you could work on that judge for me; he seems to have become rather comfortable around my Lucy very recently. It should show him his rightful place, at least."

Frowning at his reference despite whether he was serious or not, the change of subject helped her to get a better control of the flood in her mind and rein it in. The air she breathed was hot and there was a pulsing ache throughout her skull that radiated from her temples, but this she did her best to ignore. It was difficult to deny the feeling of suffocation, but it was avoidable because she knew that it was strictly mental and nothing physical whatsoever. The unexpected new course of thought helped as well to disregard the clinging pressure, and Mrs. Lovett grasped at it in order to immerse herself in the distraction.

"That judge…?" she repeated back to the barber. "You mean that Judge Turpin. Yes, he's coming around frequently enough now to see if you'd moved in yet; I see him peering up the stairs. Sometimes he'll stop in for a pie if I happen to have them that day, but it's not very likely. Ooh, he's a real fox, that one. He's a wolf for the ale, though. It's a shame…"

Benjamin glanced at her in an indirect irritation, the fury burning through his eyes giving her the impression that he was surely not himself. She'd never known Mr. Barker to look quite the way he did just then, and it was unsettling to watch him seethe so close on such an occasion as for him to rejoice. His blank expression quickly contorted into an unpleasant scowl, and his eyes blazed at the ground underfoot as his step became heavier. It was not yet a full-on rage, but it was close enough to give the baker a fright at how unlike himself he had suddenly become. It was as if a dark cloud had suddenly swooped in from above to bring about a shadow over him, and he looked fit for murder in that moment.

"A shame…?" he hissed. "It's a disgrace! These are not the dark-ages! He's decades older than her, at least! His fancy must be sick to look at a woman so much younger than himself, especially since she is pretty and has money. I'll be quiet about it for now, but if he so much as touches Lucy I _will_ inform the authorities!"

The darkness that had come about him inclined her to distance herself from the barber, but what frightened her more was that his glowering and growling held a certain allure. The mystery that surrounded it emanated a kind of draw that tried mercilessly to pull her in, and it partly succeeded when she edged close enough – still on guard – to touch a cautious hand to his shoulder in the hopes to loosen his rancor.

"Calm down, love," she implored. "He's not done anything yet, and he won't have her. You're going to be wed to her, Mr. B; certainly, he'd leave her be after that. No man with a mind would pursue a married woman, dear. Come on, let's go back or they'll start to miss us before long."

Something she did had finally gotten his attention, and the darkness was gone as if it had never come the instant he caught sight of her caution and desperation. He must have seen her fear as well, because he became immediately apprehensive upon meeting her gaze, and she was entirely relieved that he'd not seen her obvious attraction as well. For that, Mrs. Lovett had to be grateful that Benjamin was so heedlessly ignorant to these things. He sighed as if in exhaustion, looking down at her in a penitent response.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, Eleanor," he said. "That wasn't right for today, and to put that on you…Well, that wasn't me. I suppose we _should_ go back… Ah, couldn't they have made these things any easier? To wear these stiff clothes _and_ declare myself in front of a crowd all on the day I get _married_… You're sure we couldn't walk just a little farther?"

The barber glanced at her hopefully, to which she shook her head at him to mask the smirk crawling up her lips. His query was tempting to give in to considering she'd rather keep walking with him far past the ends of the Earth, but she knew that they'd need both food and rest along such an impossible journey as much as she knew that her answer was already pre-determined. It was the excuse she needed to hide her affection from him, the reason she dreaded to torture herself over, and the more important task over all others. Benjamin had to be at his wedding, because there would be no wedding without him. He was the groom – and she was a simple, remorseful witness. It was all she could do to ensure his happiness.

"Don't you go getting cold feet, now, Mr. B. There's a wedding to be had! Come, now, love; let's get you back where you belong." She said this grudgingly, putting out a false cheer for the barber's benefit. He noticed next to nothing, only sending her an odd glance for her anxious behavior, and she was glad for it. The occasion called for his full attention, and so she was thankful for the small bit of it that she had claimed for such a short time.

Albert was waiting for her upon her return, and she slipped behind the nearest tree alongside Mr. Barker for the second time in order to avoid his sentry gaze. Benjamin was loathe to part with her for his nervosity, and it took all she had just to assure him of the situation. She, too, did not wish for him to leave, and it ate at her courage as she tried desperately to put up the front she needed. He seemed adamant about staying with her until he absolutely had to leave, but leave he must – and sooner than they wanted. It went against her every whim and instinct to usher him away like she did, but she knew that it must be done. The baker didn't know how much longer she could remain marginally calm in his presence, and thus was forced for more than one reason to press him to go against both of their wills.

"Look there, Nellie; you see yourself that they aren't searching for me. Please just let me stay until I'm needed. I know it's much to ask, but you're good to me; you've helped me so much today." He grinned at her his dazzling, eager smile. "You know you're my real best-man at heart, right? Of course I'd never be able to really do such a thing, for who ever heard of a woman for a groomsman? Really, though, you are. Know that."

It was a grand compliment worthy of a grand blush, and she looked away from his eyes lest he notice it. The prospect was thoroughly surprising and equally pleasing, but she couldn't help but somehow feel disappointed, and she despised herself for it. She was to him a man of parallel structure, and not a woman at all. He had not noticed her dress, nor would he ever. The barber saw her as a fellow companion and gave no notice to such feminine things as hair, dresses, and perfume. Though she tried, it was to no avail. He acknowledged her beauty – if it could be called such a thing – as much as he acknowledged the beauty of another man.

Though she yearned for something more until she was sick of her earnest desire and hollow for it, Nellie could not help but to covet him in every aspect. It was like a burning thirst that could not be quenched, and it kept her hideously parched until she at last dried up and shriveled into a crumbling desert. She was left no room to breathe. It was like a terribly persistent itch that could not be scratched no matter how far she reached, and it was slowly tearing her apart from the inside out. Looking up at Benjamin now as he smiled blithely back, on his wedding day, she felt that she would surely go mad or explode – either the one or the other – before the day had ended.

Oblivious as usual to her inner turmoil, the barber continued to grin in a giddy sense of anxiety.

"Thank you, Mr. Barker," she said warmly. "I really appreciate it. It's not something I deserve. Anyway, this is quite the day, I know, but I assure you you'll be just fine. I hate to say it, but you've got to go, love. Better now, than when they _do_ come looking for you, by far. You look splendid. Go on; you're going to have a divine time, dear. Trust me." It took quite a lot of determination and self-preservation to keep the mutinous liquid behind her eyes in its place, and it blazed for freedom until she could hardly see or speak. Taking Benjamin by the arm, she meticulously straightened his perfectly straight apparel and dusted it of invisible dust before quickly – before she lost the courage to do so – pecking him on the cheek and shooing him away. The barber trudged the other way with the appearance of a load of bricks on each foot, and looked back over his shoulder enough times to leave her feeling empty and insecure with each step apart.

Wondering what she was to do once he was out of sight, and feeling slightly ridiculous hiding alone behind a tree, Mrs. Lovett made up her mind to go seek out Albert in the grandeur of the event. She walked just as slow – if not even more slowly – as Mr. Barker, and she filled her lungs with a giant breath in an effort to exhale her pain in conjunction with the wave of air. It did not help, just as nothing else relieved her of what felt like death, either.

She knew that it was not possible to die of something like heartbreak, but at the moment anything sensible had been overturned in her dissolving cogency to where the impossible seemed quite viable. It was eating her away, and had been for quite some time. Today, however, felt like it had bitten off more than it could chew and was now simply making a meal of her misery by melting her. The undeniable agony of it all was slowly killing her, murdering her by plunging itself deeper into her vulnerable core and withering up her soul until she was nothing but a walking shell for a rotted inside. The baker was almost sure that if someone were to crack her open, they might see what looked like the blackened gore of a spoiled fruit.

Clinging to rationality with a strength that was beginning to slip, Eleanor spotted her husband close by Mr. Mooney and another gentleman that she barely recognized, and he called out to her when he saw her. The butcher beckoned her over while his companions' eyes followed her path with mild interest, and she slipped across to his side with a couple of quick acknowledgements to the men he was standing with. Almost immediately, she could feel the concern of the gaze scouring over her expression, but he seemed to find nothing. Under the touch of his gentle worry for her perceptible despair, she was able to calm herself for a bit until the other two left.

Mrs. Lovett spoke of nothing when he inquired as to the matter, but she clung to him in the hope that it would somehow reassure her splintered sense of self. It did not. After a long period of careful questioning that received him no real answer, Albert gave up asking entirely to instead be content with her slow, outward recovery. When the tears ran dry, the baker stayed fast to her husband's shoulder, but a negative silence ensued where she remained discernibly better when poised to hold everything together. No one noticed the way her eyes stayed trained on the groom throughout the duration of the ceremony, and not a soul chanced to look her way upon the ritual exchange of vows. As these few promises were made official, the baker watched nothing but her feet. She might have been the only one looking elsewhere, but as she had suspected, she was certainly not the only one in tears.

Benjamin was radiantly vibrant as he walked towards a four-horsed carriage with his breathtaking wife, and as was the custom he kept his eyes straight. This left plenty of opportunity for Nellie to stare, and she did so unconditionally. Rice rained down from all directions, some of it thrown in an aim a bit too short, and it poured down on the baker too as she felt her last strain of conscience become mercilessly crushed. Mr. Barker was given no leave to notice the tormented anguish as it was liberated to trace streaks down his friend's pale face, and even Eleanor herself was astonished to find the genuine amount of wetness that flooded her cheeks.

They were perfect together, regardless of what she'd thought beforehand. Lucy was the epitome of beauty as she strolled arm-in-arm with Benjamin, and together they were bright enough to perhaps eclipse the sun. It was a silly thought, but it struck Mrs. Lovett as an absolute truth, and she knew that her place would never have been at the barber's side no matter who the bride had been. It was simply that much better for Mr. Barker that he'd found someone that fit him so faultlessly.

The remorse started to ebb on her way to the wedding supper, and in its place she was filled with nothing. A thought came to her then, out of the numb, that she could still ensure the barber's happiness in his new life. That would be her utmost priority, seeing as her own was lost, and it would at least give her a semblance of joy like she used to know to find him happy. He may not have the time for her then, but she had plenty of time for _him_. As long as he loved Lucy, then his wife too would be included under her umbrella. Her devotion now would be the health, safety, and above all, happiness of Benjamin and Lucy Barker. What else was there?

The sense of purpose, no matter how slight, lifted her from her consistent doldrums enough to enjoy the conversation around her and the food on her tongue as the supper became a little more lively. Albert, at least, was made glad for her spirit's return, even if it was small, and it led her to appreciate just how much he cared for her. It was considerably more than she cared for him, especially since she'd met Benjamin, and it crashed what little assurance she had with a rather exaggerated sigh. The worst of it was behind her, but she couldn't help the pangs of guilt and sorrow both as they stabbed at her from every end over her undeserved husband and now married love. They were most precisely correct in saying that life was not fair, and now that phrase hit her solidly with the force of all that was behind it.

Her mood was only marginally improved when the music was played, and she dejectedly paid less and less attention to her steps as Albert led her in a dance. Center position was given to the celebrated couple as they danced their own measure, and she caught herself peering at them in almost a trance. The butcher seemed not to notice, but she knew he couldn't possibly be so dull. He may have been pretending not to see what was blatantly evident, but it only helped to make Eleanor feel even worse. Had she ever really thought of Albert, or how unfair this was to _him_? Good God, when would it end?!

The only moment it ever stopped was right when her dance was interrupted, when she was forced to dance with yet another boring guest at their disposal. She looked up to the familiar face so least expected, and her system was immediately frozen at a loss for a reaction. Should she be happy? This wasn't right. Should she be sad? His pleasant grin took away any thought of that. She couldn't very well be _mad_, and so the baker settled with a simply, shocked indifference as Benjamin locked his hand through hers and an arm about her waist. He did so like it was very natural to him, and she felt everything she'd built up and thought on fall instantly to shambles.

They spun, but her world spun faster. He smiled, and her lips lifted of their own accord to spread wide across her teeth as he gazed at her, _into_ her, at only her. His touch was a privilege, his bright grin was a shared commodity, and the sweeping way he guided her over the floor left her in piercing doubt as to whether she'd even survive the night. What little preservation she had, his dark eyes were burning right away. She could feel it as her resolve sizzled away, and knew that it was hopeless.

Eleanor was incurably, irrefutably in love – and it wouldn't stop until it tore them all apart.

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I tried to do my research...but if there's something a little off, I don't mind corrections. Such as the 'dark-ages' reference, or the 'wedding supper'. They did have wedding suppers, to my knowledge, but the receptions were more like breakfasts and without the dancing. ...and I don't think they had outside weddings until much later, either...but they can just be the ninteenth-century wedding-rebels. Reviews are love!!


	8. Stormy Weather, Books, and Heather

Hello to everyone! I'll just say a couple of things before I get out of your way. First, the quotes in the book are from Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. If you haven't, then I implore you to read it. Heathcliff very much reminds me of Sweeney. Second, kudos to those that recognize either of the two references to the Sleepy Hollow movie, also with Johnny Depp and Tim Burton. One is more distinguishable than the other, because only one is a direct quote. Just thought I'd mention that... A lot of things happen in this chapter, so have fun. Cheers!!

Oh yeah - and there's a quote I found awhile ago that simply made me think of this whole fandom in general. Kudos if you can get where it's from, too. XD "When one loves, there is the risk of hate." If no one gets it, then I'll just tell you next chapter...

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The very idea was preposterous, and worthy of a good shove to the back of his mind. It was what he should have done, and what he tried to do, except it kept coming back. After all, it had a good point that was rather hard to miss.

Having put the baker's book of memoirs back in its place, he resorted to staring dumbly down at her motionless figure. It was now just past dusk, and it was growing darker by the minute as he continued to peer at her. His gaze was unrelenting, focusing mainly on her stony face, but it traveled down across the rest of her slumbering form as well. The concept was almost incinerating: he was ogling at a defenseless woman who was clearly asleep. A second's worth of consideration, however, reminded him that he needn't have bothered to care. Nellie would not object to his staring at all. Rather, she would bask beneath it.

It was hard to believe. He'd known that Benjamin was ignorant – at least, _thought_ that he was different – but this was news that was proving exceedingly difficult to process. Mrs. Lovett had _always_ loved him, loved Benjamin, and loved him more than anything the world could offer. Of course he'd known that the importunate baker had been in love with him, but it was galling to find out just how long and deep she had loved him. Until now, she'd been nothing more than a pesky accomplice – a nuisance, but required. Now he knew the difference, and now he remembered something he'd nearly forgotten that he'd even forgotten: Eleanor had been precious to Benjamin, too. Perhaps not in the same way as Lucy or Johanna, but she was an exquisite friend to him…and she still tried to be that same friend, even now. The notion that he'd even lost this memory for even a moment gave him the sudden impulse to cringe; Sweeney Todd _never_ forgot.

Again, the persistent idea wracked his mind with its concept, and this time it became very hard to ignore. Mrs. Lovett was his _friend_. The concept was so foreign that he nearly dismissed it all over again, but it also had a creeping sense of familiarity. She'd been working all this time to help him, giving him everything, and – he realized with a jolt – she was wholly willing to give up her life as well if he so desired. And he _had_ desired for quite some time…until now. It was no coincidence that she'd been so easily thrown into her oven – it had seemed, at the time, like she even helped fall into it – or tempted into false security before he'd rudely discovered his missing razors.

She'd been loyal to him – lied to save him, even – all this time. The woman had waited for him for fifteen long years and kept his razors for him. She helped commit heinous crimes for him…it might have been remotely funny how much he _hadn't_ changed, if it hadn't been so maddening. It seemed he'd lost more than innocence in Australia, and it seemed a lot more than he'd thought.

Sweeney blinked hard, twice, to clear his vision of its vibrant spots, and ripped out a frustrated growl from his throat at the way nothing seemed to make sense. Maybe it didn't even _need_ to make sense, but the circles were driving him mad. It had been complicated before, he knew, but simply so. At present, the complexity forced him to remain still and in thought, enraged by his own oblivious nature. Lucy…Lucy, Lucy, Lucy… Who was he? It had been simple, before: he was a vengeful ghost. There _was_ no after, and there had definitely not been an Eleanor.

Now…who was he? Physically, he was the same man he'd been born as, but psychologically…he should be dead. All these broken memories of another life that didn't belong to him anymore…but he had no identity. Benjamin had died with Lucy; they were together…and yet he was the same. He was the same as Benjamin Barker. He was Sweeney Todd. These memories…they were Benjamin's. They were Sweeney's. They were Sweeney's only through Benjamin…and Benjamin was dead. He loved Lucy; Benjamin loved Lucy. He'd taken revenge for his former life because gentle Mr. Barker had been too weak to do so, but he was not Benjamin. They shared a body, a memory, some characteristics…but he was Sweeney Todd. He was made from revenge; from hate and resentment…he knew no love. He did not love Lucy; he did not even love himself.

Mrs. Lovett was the only thing left from Benjamin's life that had not been annihilated, and she was his friend. She was his _only_ friend…and she loved him. The barber understood this from a past perspective, but he knew nothing of the feeling personally. He'd let his demon, his pseudonym, take control – now, there was nothing left. He was desolate. Emotionless. Without a purpose…but he had a friend. The sentiment was something he was sure he could never return through his incapacity, but it was a helpful start. For him, there was no love. For him, this _was_ love.

Only when Nellie began to stir did he move, and he stepped hastily towards the door to avoid her detection. He was certain now that she deserved a little of what she longed for, and he would make sure that _someone_ finally received what was deserved in this city. She would be given what he could of Benjamin. It was all he _could_ give, though it would only be an illusion. The baker was deserving of Benjamin, but Benjamin was dead. He could only do so much…but he was positive that it would be enough.

His boot caught an object in his path with a thud that seemed much louder than it should have been, and the barber halted in time to see something minimally weighted land heavily near a bed-post. Normally, he would have ignored the object, but when upon further inspection he found a book he was unable to resist the concept of looking at his pages, at least. After today, he'd found looking through Mrs. Lovett's books to be quite useful as well as dangerous. The danger did not faze him in the least, but the use propelled him forward to open the cover curiously. He did not know what he was expecting to find, but he was almost sure that he hadn't expected what he found.

Turning a few pages of the book, not bothering to glance at the title, his eyes skimmed over the words unfocused as he noted the worn skeleton of the novel. It seemed to have been read profusely, perhaps one of the baker's preferred pieces of literature, and as he considered this his eyes caught on one of the phrases: '_The murdered _do _haunt their murderers, I believe._'

To think of it, it made his mind begin to creep into an overlying shadow. It was always there, and it encompassed him then as he read on. '_I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only _do_ not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I _cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!_' It was minimally familiar, as if he himself had thought such a thing almost exactly only moments ago before he read Eleanor's poorly concealed diary. It led him to wonder at the persona of the character who had said it, and to question himself. Evidently, one _could_ live without a life or a soul. He seemed to be direct proof for that contradiction.

He flipped though another cluster of pages, grazing through them all in search of something he didn't know he even looked for. Two more quotes stood apart from the rest of the text to catch his attention, and he frowned.

_He'll love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of impertinence to be loved or hated again. _This seemed entirely suited for being directed at himself, he marked, and this truth had him glancing darkly at Nellie as she breathed in a sigh. The second of the two seemed to fit her precisely as the first did him, and it implored him to snap the book shut and place it back on the floor.

'_If he loved with all the powers of his puny being, he couldn't love as much in eighty years as I could in a day._' Without this capability, it seemed reasonable to assume that Eleanor would love him as he would remain stoical to the very gesture. He could not love her; he loved no one. He had not touched a woman in 15 years, and it seemed that touching was all that could be done. A simple touch required nothing, and it could be just as empty as his intentions would have been on afterwards. Yet he was not ignorant to the facet that this sort of touch would pain the baker…afterwards. In the moment, she might as well be as delighted as he was fascinated.

The barber stopped that thought abruptly before it grew to go farther than it had already. He turned his mind instead to his next task: supplying Mrs. Lovett with what she deserved. There was no clear idea of what he would do past this, but he saw clearly in the moment. The moment was all that mattered, of course – if there was nothing else.

Looking again to Nellie when she turned over under her many blankets, Mr. Todd stepped swiftly around the disarray lining the floor to stand daunting at her side. He was over her closely, watching as would a vulture its prey her haggard expression when she at last lifted her eyes open to gaze up at him in curious exhaustion. Her eyes shot wider, her breath rushing to meet her lips as they parted to let it through, and she blinked as if wondering if he was a dream or an illusion. The barber stood in subtle amusement until her initial shock faded, and then she dragged up a hand to her head to say what had him struggling not to smirk down at her as she so often did to him.

"Why are you in my room, Mr. T? Did you happen to come by them razors of yours, love, or else was it something you need?" She winced at her slow speech, squinting up at him as if he was emanating a gruelingly bright light towards burning her tawny gaze. It only furthered his reason to find her mildly worth watching, and cracked his fighting smirk to twitch up his lips. She had, as suspected, drank exceedingly more than her fill of gin. He was only glad it was not the arsenic intended.

"Why am I in your room, pet?" he repeated silkily, allowing the smirk to become a little more visible on his hardened features. "Because it is yours. Actually…I have not had the good fortune to come across my razors."

Mrs. Lovett focused on him a little more clearly, and their eyes met as she scowled calculatingly up towards him. "They're still gone?" she asked doubtfully, skepticism making an appearance on her narrowed eyes. Apparently, he was going to have to earn her trust. Her loyalty would make up for her trust, undoubtedly, but it was less than the same.

"Gone," he said shortly. She didn't appear to comprehend this answer very well, and held her head now as if it were prone to explosion. When she tried to sit up, he pushed her back flat again, and when she sent him a questioning look he merely grunted in lieu of a proper response. He didn't need to look at her face to know that Mrs. Lovett was confused by his actions, but he also didn't plan on giving her an answer for it. "Sleep now," he said. "You need it."

The baker did not obey his suggestion, and instead struggled against him to sit up or move. Her determination affected her strength immensely, and her noncompliance forced Mr. Todd to use the last option available under the circumstance. Remarkably, it was more appealing to him than he would have thought. After all, she was all that was left…it had to count for something, if it hadn't before.

Keeping a strong hold on both of Nellie's shoulders, the barber surprised her by casually laying himself at her side. It served no more than to keep her in her place, but it had both the barber and his accomplice on edge when it gave reason to remember just _why_ he'd kept his distance from the baker before. In isolation, it might have only been partially responsible for his distance as compared to fully, but it hardly mattered now as he was pressed evenly against Mrs. Lovett's tensed side. She herself seemed to be transfixed by an incredulous suspicion, and Mr. Todd could not blame her for it.

He was nothing. Without Lucy, without Benjamin – without a soul. His hatred had worn down to an exhaustion – of course, never forgetting – and he had absolutely nothing in the world. All of his beliefs had been shattered, revealed to him as false conceptions and selfish deductions, and they came to nothing. Sweeney himself was entirely devoid of all desire, and all purpose. He knew not for what reason he lived, and his life was empty for it. Empty – except for Mrs. Lovett.

Truly, she should be dead, but she deserved nothing less than life. He knew this now – knew this, and struggled to wrap his mind around it. He wanted nothing, but offered himself in return for her undeserved suffering. Part of it, at least, had been all for him. Whatever was his fault he might feel compelled to fix, having nothing better as an alternative, and it was undoubtedly correct to blame himself for the way in which Mrs. Lovett tortured herself. Whether it was a conscious effort or not, he was willing to give Nellie her way for it, so as to stop it before it escalated further. In reality, he hadn't the faintest idea if such a thing even _could_ escalate much farther.

It was not entirely terrible, as it would have been if he'd still had a mind to kill her. She still stared as if in awe, but she was comfortable in a way that differentiated itself from his usual frustration accompanied by ire. By her side, he felt in some way responsible for his life, and for something outside of it. He had a task, and it was useful as a distraction from his main problem. The barber took care to immerse himself in the object, and lay still at the hip of the baker who still gazed at him in the likeness to a stupefied curiosity. She no longer made a point of trying to move, which made his self-imposed job that much better for having to lie so close to Mrs. Lovett.

"Sleep," he insisted shortly, aware of his own harsh tone. The baker did not comply at all, but he did not expect her to. Looking down to her with a gaze that he hoped conveyed his point more gently and sincerely than his voice, Mr. Todd took it upon himself to draw an arm about the woman's stiff shoulders and drag her into him. This ensured her immobility, and he was sure that it would have indeed helped the woman to sleep after the initial shock.

Eleanor was gazing at him now from the side with a passion striking her rich eyes – an ardor he could not place or understand. She watched him quite intensely, the genuine glint in her eyes' depths a mysterious fascination that neither made sense to him nor drove him to pursue the matter for curiosity's sake. Instead, he angled himself so as to gaze back into her ogling. The flood was an instant effect, the sincerity and adoration – coupled by pure disbelief in her silent stare inundating him in various waves of a peculiar warmth and the sudden urge to examine the baker before him. What lay beyond that unrecognizable spirit in her piercing infiltration of mind, and what was the extent of her uncanny intelligence? He was given the fleeting impulse to pick her apart, and to find within her the inner workings and motive behind her actions. The barber found relatively none of this by simply making eye-contact, but he found that in all aspects she was every bit the wonder he'd named her to be. Unreadable, unpredictable, unremitting…unsolvable.

Who was she? Assuredly, she was not the same woman who had gladly walked with him – with _Benjamin_ – on his wedding day. In many qualities, disregarding the visual and obvious similarities, she was the same, but he also noted a subtle differing resistance. It alighted in her gaze as simple experience, the wisdom of years and the hardship of tragedy, but it was also transformed in his perspective into something more tangible, yet unambiguous. The slight disparity was by no means intrusive, but it interested him to ascertain what it was exactly.

"Mr. Todd," she said slowly, and it brought his wandering thoughts back into focus. Nellie had looked away from him, downwards as she tried to form her sentence. She had the appearance of one on trial for hanging. Doubtless, that image might soon become a very uncomfortable reality. "If you have anything to say to me," continued Mrs. Lovett, "then, for the sake of honesty, please say it. You know as well as I do that lollygagging serves not a single purpose."

He was reminded then, for certain, that she would do anything asked of her. Her compliance was a destructive devotion, and the barber again marveled at her willingness to die for him if he so desired. Her feelings for him were unconditional, poorly disguised…how had he missed such a thing, before? He knew of Eleanor's affections, of her petty desire, but this was an entirely different spectrum. This was something deeper than he could have imagined she would be capable of withstanding for the mere likes of him – a phantom shadow of the past come back to haunt those who had made him thus and served him injustice. What could she possibly see that he could not?

"Of course," he replied leisurely, still eyeing the baker in his engrossment. "What is it you believe I'd have to say to you, Eleanor?" Her quiet awe, the same force that widened her eyes as they lifted to his and stole her breath as she gasped for its presence, was a very amusing feature. She went rigid against his side and under his mocking gaze, her confusion swimming around in her eyes as if they were the ocean she craved so much to live by.

"W-what…" the baker stuttered, her eyes searching over his face for what he assumed to be some sort of deceit. "What on Earth possessed you to call me that, Mr. T?"

His lips twitched upwards in the humor of watching her vast wonder, and it pleased him greatly to see her in such a state. She stared at him dumbly, her lips parted and her face blank as his use of her presiding name was given time to soak in and prone to knock her flat. He wasn't quite sure why such a simple maneuver had affected her in this way, but the display was not to be missed. The baker gaped as if he'd just admitted to something heinous, and Sweeney scoffed quietly in the knowledge that there were a very scant few things that could be considered heinous in comparison to his daily murdering.

"It's your name," he answered simply. He watched her blink at him in response, and felt the imposing need to chuckle at her look of utter stupidity. Naturally, he did not, but the feeling itself was a grand relief since he'd gone for so long without experiencing its equal. Had he not laughed even once in fifteen years? The prospect was striking, but he was none the worse for it. Neither was he the better, but the absence of humor had not been the factor to propel his decent in to what he was.

"Yes," said Nellie uncertainly, and she frowned at him. She looked to be astounded by what he'd said, but he could see the astonishment slowly dissipating in increments as something stronger started to root itself in her flint-colored eyes. A submerged sparkle caught his own eye as it glinted near the edge of her brown depths, and he watched as it grew to a weighted fluid help up only by her curved lashes. With each blink it grew, until it was too heavy to be held, and then dripped slowly in a lissome motion down her porcelain skin as would rain from a cloud. Only the single drop fell, and the baker appeared not to notice as her frown twisted into a pleasured grin, silently reveling in her gratification.

The wild smile was a very bizarre sight to see, residing on her expression as a rainbow to the sky, and it stirred in him the inclination to return the gesticulation. Once more he was reminded of how his smirk was dim in comparison, but even that small tug at the corner of his mouth had Eleanor positively elated. She laughed once, the sound seeming somehow deprived, and slid forwards until her smiling lips collided with his cheek, which she kissed. When she withdrew, the baker wiggled her way closer until her head rested upon his shoulder, and he let her do these with a waning tolerance. When he sincerely confronted the issue, he knew he did not mind half as much as he wanted to, but the prospect of betraying Lucy was still fresh in his mind despite his earlier conclusion.

Eleanor sighed into his neck, her breath gliding pat his skin like a gentle breeze, and he noticed how close she actually was when he felt her lips move against his skin as well. Her auburn curls tickled his chin as she whispered an inquiry as to what had happened between the time she'd picked up the gin and now, and he felt compelled to both shove her away and jolt her even closer. By no means did he obey this inclination, but he knew enough to wonder about it. Under no circumstance had he ever encountered something so odd, and it was an equally strange feeling.

"You intoxicated yourself," he stated in answer. It was the most obvious reply, and not the one she wanted to hear, he knew. He gave it nonetheless, finding it the simplest explanation he had to offer, and he felt the baker raise her head in response. She sent him a skeptical glance from half-lidded eyes, a similar smirk to his playing behind her mock-disappointment, and she lowered her head so that he could see every angle or her downcast features – especially the length or her black lashes.

"Oh, yes," Nellie said softly. "Of course, but that isn't what I meant, you know. I suppose what I should have asked…well, did I chance to do anything too ridiculous? And would you mind telling the time, love? I don't believe I'm fit enough for selling _anything_ with my head quaking so." She shook her head in another sigh, and then let it fall back to his stiff shoulder with a muffled yawn. Her hand, however, came up to snake down his arm and race a light pattern in the center of his palm.

He remained entirely still for this, and subjected himself to learning about the peculiar sensation that flowed through his stomach whenever he thought of the baker at his side, and her part in his existence. Whatever he'd become, she was willing to love him this way, and to die for his sick habits. It was interestingly pleasing, whether from a scant self-centered flattery, or from a real understanding of what this made him, he was not sure. The prospect left him in a complex muddle to figure out the feeling that layered his insides, or to untangle the obstructive haze that had settled into coating his thoughts. This woman would do anything, had given everything, and was delectably breakable for it. She remained a curious mystery, and yet she always held some amount of predictability. Vastly clever in comparison to Benjamin's consort, he mused that beauty was as much the inside as the visual appearance. And who was he to judge, if he was just as contorted by the past as she? Both being warped by their regrets, he could only see the attraction in her as an escape. Thus, she was the most satisfying beauty he'd ever envisaged, and all the more delicious for him to dissect. In her, he could find the qualities that would redeem himself.

"You did nothing disreputable," he managed to breathe, "and I don't care what bloody time it is. Sleep." His words came to sound wholly phlegmatic to the baker's viewpoint, but he did not try to correct their impact. Taking the hand that drawled across his, he clamped it between his fingers and resolved to unwind Eleanor and her riddle-some ways. Love was nothing to him, and yet it seemed to be the most important facet of her negligible life. What drove her, and what motives were behind her procedure in what she did? He needed an answer that held ground: something more tangible than the sensitivity evoked by _love_. Love was absolutely nothing; it was a state of mind. What he required was deeper than any one choice, and gave the impression of figuring her out entirely down to the very detail of her center balance. Whichever way she tipped, her balance was as sure as his to lean the one way or the other, and theirs must have well been matched in their lopsided imprecation.

Mrs. Lovett nodded almost imperceptibly, gliding her thumb over the side of his own and trailing a line of unfamiliar warmth across his skin. She lay back into his side and shut her eyes, and suddenly he was much too close. Her every breath reverberated into his own, and the head from her body seeped through him in fragments through its barrier until he was scorching alive at her side. Nellie seemed all too calm for such a transaction, as if she did not notice, and it occurred to him that she might not. Whilst he struggled to continue to remain motionless as ever, the baker appeared perfectly serene in his arms, and it began to burn increasingly unbearable with each passing second. He could not fathom how she went unnoticed to such an extravagant warmth as it boiled through his skin, and the burn started to ache indistinguishably the longer he kept. It ravished him from the inside until there was nothing left but the pure instinct of the perception, diminishing his thought the longer he tarried until all that lingered was a bedraggled sense of exhaustion that was quickly being overcome with a newfound fervor.

"Eleanor…" he pushed out through his teeth, unaware if it was a question or a demand. It might have even been a kind of plead, but for what he had yet to discover. Whatever it was adjured profuse attention and a hasty quenching, and it corroded so quickly that it was quite impossible to think through, but what did it need for quenching? He hadn't the faintest idea what the untamed devil wanted, and was quickly losing the ability to reason through the possibilities. Frankly, it wasn't the same as the pull for vengeance or blood as before; it was certainly not the same, and it was infinitely stronger. The grip of it clenched him even tighter, and he soon felt as if it were suffocating him under the weight of its commands.

_More_ it needed, _now_ it ordered, but what did it bloody _want_? The desire was thick, it seemed not to be his own, but whose else would it be but his? It accumulated like the grey of a storm, pushed with the might of a deluge, and yet his sky appeared to reject it under the pretense that it did not make sense. Like rain on a desert, deprivation had left him to forget. He was dry and empty, and this spontaneous torrent was beyond his limit. It was all he could do to hold it back, keep it at a minimum, and grit his teeth in order not to yell what would be considered grisly in the presence of a woman. Granted, Mrs. Lovett was not the regular, proper model for a woman, but at the moment he didn't take time to consider.

"Yes, dear?" came Nellie's gentle reply through his pulsing, inviting perdition. Her voice penetrated through him as a jolt on top of the raging encumbrance, and the obstacle tightened in his chest and his throat as it screwed into his stomach like a weighted blow. The world was distant, his sight was dimmed, and yet at first glace to the baker every sense was heightened around her. The puzzle, the solitary daze, the inexplicable sluice of protestation, her arresting precision of _allure_…her vindication…it was right torture.

He waited and was scathed, incinerated to the brim for an imperceptible cause, and held his position through the felicitous searing produced by the full contact with the baker. Sweeney might have guessed it to be a discipline of sorts – a chastisement for the attempted murdering of Nellie with like pain – if the torment had not been so enjoyable. It was both scornfully bitter and lusciously sweet, and the collision begged for order in his mind where there was none. The inappreciable impediment scoured over him in an ineffable consumption, and it took all he had to breathe at all, though he knew the air came and went faster than it should have.

Was he ill? Perhaps these were the symptoms, delivered in a masochistic combustion as a way to trick him. It did not seem very likely under the circumstance, though his clothes were still moderately damp from the spiteful downpour on his journey to fetch the arsenic. This surely did not seem to be a cold, or anything even remotely similar. He'd not heard of anything that destroyed so pleasurably – not even the Devil's Island itself. No sickness was equal the amount of exultation as this, and no malady could set in so fast. He'd certainly not acquired anything before that day, so it only left him with one plausible excuse for the euphoria.

The barber was in agreement that he must have overestimated his limitations for the gin, and these were the inescapable affects of the alcohol as it dissolved into his system. There was no other explanation, though the nature of the alcohol must have worn off quite a while ago. None of it made sense, but the burning was too strong to ignore enough to find the logic he required of the situation. His thoughts were slowly disintegrating into the ashes of a much simpler pattern under the influence of the fire emanating from his core, and his train of reason was incapable of being held for so much longer.

"Is everything alright, Mr. T?" Nellie questioned. Her eyes were level with his, narrowed into a calculating squint, and they were a mere breadth apart. The tip of her nose skimmed over his own, and her exhaling breaths drifted prominently over his face as he was swathed in her immediate concern. She shifted against him, causing the heat within him to rise substantially, and drew her free hand across his forehead. "You don't look so very swell, love. Gracious, you're hotter than blazes! You might be coming down with something, Mr. Todd. How do you feel?"

Her palm lingered against his skin, igniting him by her touch, and the connection was a very easy one to make. Each flare of pleasure and pain could be equated to a graze with the woman at his side, notwithstanding the fact that she was already almost on top of him from the very start. The barber strived even to make this simplest of deductions, and tried exceptionally to put it away once he had. It accounted for nothing, it was not relevant, it made the least sense of all, and yet the idea itself had other things in mind. It refused to be shunned, and took liberties to remain at the forefront of his mind where he could not readily ignore it.

"Wretched," the barber hissed through the conception impaling his thought. It would not leave him alone until it was considered, but he was dreading considering it. The notion was intractable to his will, and he bore through its persistence long enough to formulate a weak plan in the matter.

Wrangling with the complex aberrations soaring through his skull and the profound objections from the intensity of his burning, Sweeney saw through his mass of simplistic thought and inexplicable sensations to slowly rip himself physically and psychologically away from the curious baker. Mrs. Lovett peered after him without bothering to hide her anxiety, and her gaze pierced a thick hole in the center of his motive as he attempted to escape. He avoided her wide eyes, layered with fatigue, and sewed the hole with unstable resolutions enough to step towards the exit. When he turned, he could still feel the sting of Eleanor's stare on his back and the pull to go back, but he did his best to push away the thought of both in order to proceed towards the door. He shut it without looking and felt satisfaction with his new, less inflammatory surroundings. Giving relief a chance, he leaned his back against the door and shut his eyes outstandingly tight until everything drained out of him.

All excess was gone when he opened them; in its place a substitute of ease and prostration, and the sight of a patiently waiting Tobias Ragg no less than a yard in front of him stuck him into alert. His fingers twitched towards the place of an absent razor, and he glared extravagantly at the boy until he was liable to back into a chair for fear. This terror gave him enough peace to continue, and he approached the apprentice in wry caution as Tobi stayed frozen to his place with his eyes locked onto the barber's.

It was then that the clear streaks down the young boy's face became apparent, and Mr. Todd stopped in recognition. He stood a few steps away from the apprentice, who became marvelously reminiscent of a statue, and he observed the solid coat of rage under the watery hurt and apprehension. It was not a rage violent like his own, but pure and silently smoldering in the eyes of an innocent, and it was directed at him. He chose to ignore this facet with addressing Tobi, and instead hovered closer as he felt a scowl darken his expression.

"Well…?" he prompted shortly. "What's the matter, boy?" Despite his irritability, the child's tears were perturbing in their implication; something was obviously amiss. Tobi hung his head to lower his gaze instead of focusing it on Sweeney's, and remained ever silent. He shuffled on his feet, looking sullen, before he finally swallowed to give an answer.

"Sidney – the cat, Sir – he died. There was no reason from what I can figure; I mean, he was just stone-dead when I found him. I don't understand it, Sir." As he said it, the tears brimming his eyes bulged, and he glanced up to Sweeney with a hint of doubt. Mr. Todd watched as he sniffed, edging backwards away from the barber, and as Tobi turned a doleful look towards the other room – possibly outside. He couldn't tell from the direction of the apprentice's gaze, and it induced him to ask another question.

Ragg looked astounded when he asked where the cat was, and though his appearance was glum he seemed to brighten a bit. He looked interestedly towards Mr. Todd, who waited in impatience, before making his halting response: "I don't know, Sir. " When the barber's stare became increasingly overbearing, Tobias continued. "I mean, I didn't know what to do. I couldn't find you or Mrs. Lovett until now, see…so when I went back, he was gone. He was dead, I'm sure of it, but it's likely he's been stolen. Don't ask me why someone would want a dead cat, but I guess it don't matter anymore. He's gone." The apprentice hesitated, sighing mournfully, before turning his eyes upon the barber in a bolder look. "If you don't mind my asking, Mr. Todd, sir…could you might tell me why you were in Mrs. Lovett's bedroom?"

Sweeney matched the boy's hopeful glance with a bland look, turning away towards the next room and the door to the street. "That's not your business, boy. Mrs. Lovett's asleep; you can tell her what you like later." He felt a twinge of annoyance at the flare of strong disbelief as it passed over the shop-boy's now intent stare, and knew that Tobi would have to go behind him and see Eleanor himself to believe that Sweeney hadn't killed her. As ridiculous as it seemed, the barber's annoyance quickly rounded on himself as a slight prick of guilt. He pushed it off easily enough, but he had to at least concede that Ragg was justified in his skepticism.

Moving past the boy to leave him standing alone in the room, Mr. Todd strode quickly through the shop to reach the street in a matter of seconds. He inhaled a breath-full of the rancid air – anything but fresh – and found it sating to his mood. The metallic, greasy stench of too much rain and much more filth reached his nose within that same breath, and he welcomed it in its familiarity as compared to the faded feeling of incineration. The city was as bleak as ever, and he walked briskly down the puddle streets in the hopes of finding a shop that might still be open. After all, it wasn't really that long ago since the ruined supper incident, though it felt like so much more than it was.

The streetlamps blazed a path for him as he treaded through the numerous pools of water standing in the dips of the darkly shining street. The wetness in the lamps' light seemed to twinkle with a wicked anticipation as though it hid a lurking danger in its flickering surface, and it beckoned him forward as the light danced over it, drawing him further along its expanse. He complied easily, walking first to let the numb sink in, and then to find something suitable to purchase as a gift for the mysterious baker.

Mr. Todd hardly expected a simple gift to redeem his harsh treatment and ignorance of Nellie, but he knew that she would enjoy something so trivial as if it meant much more. To him, it meant nothing, but it was what Benjamin might have done under the circumstance. Though the man was dead, he could still apply what he knew of him to make Mrs. Lovett happy. It was his temporary existence now, to decipher the baker and satiate her.

With no particularly clear idea of what Nellie would want, and with no intentional direction, the barber arrived unexpectedly at a florist adjoining a pawn shop, both still open and looking as if they'd rather not be. He walked into the florist's aimlessly, glancing into the pawn shop to find an array of unrelated items in an unorganized assortment. Among the morass, his eyes were snagged by a familiar sort of reflection, but it was indecipherable from his viewpoint, and his lingering attention was reigned in by the bedraggled florist.

"Good evening, good sir; how may I assist you?" said the tired-looking man. His face hung down as if from exhaustion, the skin sagging under the eyes and at the chin, and his grey hair was unkempt about his weary face. The smile he bore, however, was welcoming – as if he'd not had a customer all day. It was almost the same desperate plead for business as which Mrs. Lovett had swayed him with on his return to London some months ago, but the difference was apparent. "What might you be looking for?" The florist directed Sweeney's gaze to the varied selection of plants, and the barber was immensely taken aback. Were there really so very may flowers in the world? It was an impossible concept to take in all at once with so many colors surrounding him, such that he'd not seen an equal to in the grays of his life.

"Flowers," replied Mr. Todd quite seriously. "I'm looking for flowers." He eyed the florist expectantly, who looked back in bemusement. The man squinted across at Sweeney as if he were a floral specimen, weeding out imperfections or bringing them to light. This thought put him in a worse humor with the knowledge that what would be revealed was no better than a weed, at best. At worst, he might have been the lowly dirt on the ground that supported the weeds, and then where would he be? The barber had no intention of coming to be surveyed, and so he was on the verge of simply walking back out to the street when the florist finally spoke.

"Yes, of course you want flowers; you wouldn't be here if you didn't – unless you were selling something, in which case I'd probably buy it. You aren't trying to sell something, are you?" The beady look the man sent him was enough to place a firm dislike for the creature in Sweeney's mind. "No matter… Flowers, you say… Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you look to be in need of a stronger message: perhaps some forget-me-nots for true love and such, or some roses? Flowers are the language of love, my friend. Take your pick, or better, pick your pick!"

The tired-faced man hovered about his shoulder as the barber looked over the many flower heads in a slight disdain. The florist seemed to bask in the cleverness of his play on words, and crept with an air of pride to a small cluster of flowers. He held them up for Mr. Todd to see, looking over them himself in a way that only equated to a parental type of responsibility. He set the flowers in their place with care, and turned to the barber with a small smile. The caution in his handlings with his flowers led Sweeney to deduce that the man regarded these plants as children, and it very surely meant that he had no physical family to speak of – much like the barber himself. To Mr. Todd, regardless, the hobby was a mindless one in its fanciful delirium.

The florist pursed his lips when Sweeney shook his head in a silent rejection, and dragged himself over to another row of flowers to scan over their bright colors. "No…?" he muttered, hinting at annoyance. "Well, then…being specific would get to the crux of the matter. Flowers are flowers. You look like the type to give a tuberose. Would that satisfy you, maybe? They're for the symbolism of a dangerous pleasure." Again, he looked irritated and disappointed when Sweeney declined. Sighing, the florist sent a sidelong glance to another plant, tall and budded with tiny, pink flowers. "Heather…that seems appropriate, don't you agree? It's for admiration, solitude, protection…whatever you want out of those. Would that do? What is the purpose of your…purchase…may I ask? For a lady-friend, I assume."

The barber nodded silently to the inquiry, eyeing the flower that the florist indicated with a sense of satisfaction. The heather and its meaning was wonderfully suitable when coupled with another species of flower, but now he was faced with finding the partner for the plant. There seemed to be an overwhelming amount of choices, and so he took the pink-budded strand of heather in resignation. When the florist saw his dilemma, however, he appeared overjoyed in the aspect of helping him.

"Well, you'd want something more than just that, I'd assume – and that by itself looks very lonely. There, take two – same price. Anyway, heather looks splendid with any number of other flowers. Do you have a color or type your lady might prefer, perhaps, or else some other meaning? There's just about everything, here. Love, rejection, requests, promises…things like 'forgive me' and 'elope with me'. Anything of interest?" The florist grinned at him cordially, presenting to him several plants that he declined and taking a moment to set aside some of the flowers that seemed to be less healthy than their counterparts. He sighed when Sweeney did not accept any of a line of roses, and turned to him in curiosity. "What is she like, this lady or yours? Perhaps I could find a match."

"You could not," Mr. Todd shot back evenly, and swept another disapproving gaze over the row of brown-tipped roses. "Remembrance: which is that, and the one you mentioned earlier, for forgiveness." He saw the look of peaked interest and a clear smug attitude about the florist when he said forgiveness, but he put away the urge to slit the man's throat on the means that it would do no good when the man was an innocent nuisance, and he did not have his razors. With this knowledge, Sweeney dismissed his provocation to listen to the florist's prescription. He did so grudgingly, but the tired-looking man seemed not to notice one way or the other, so intent he was on making his doctrine.

"Remembrance…the best thing for it, I believe, would be rosemary – seeing as you don't care for the roses. But for the purpose of forgiveness…your best choice would be the purple hyacinth, meaning 'forgive me' or 'I'm sorry'. It'll be sure to win her over, I assure you, for what proper lady does not like flowers?" The man winked less than subtly, picking out the necessary ingredients and bunching them together in a bouquet. It was not as bad as Mr. Todd would have expected from the different flowers, but it was somehow lacking. He doubted that effect could be reversed, and so he settled for the bunch in the wisdom that Eleanor would not care. He might as well have picked for her one of the browned and crusted plants that lingered on death, and she would not have cared so long as he was giving her something. Outwardly, however, she might have criticized him on taste for the poor choice, but he knew better.

Moments later, the barber walked back into the street with the bouquet in hand, fully relieved to have been rid of the florist's presence. He looked through the crowded, stained window into the pawn shop once more, again noticing the familiar sparkle. It appeared as a twinkle on the edge of his vision, there one moment and gone the next like a reflection on metal. When he searched for it, he could not find it, but was convinced that it had been there. It monopolized his attention with an ossified suspicion, and he held the bundle of flowers delicately at his side as he sidled into the disarranged shop.

An ostentatious bell tinkled loudly upon his opening the door, but he ignored it to scan through the chaos in search of what he knew was his. It was unmistakable. As he waded through the jumble, he felt a rising resentment for she who had sold his precious tools to this place of rubbish. It may have been unreasonable to blame her for removing the danger, but it was also unreasonable to get rid of what was so important to him. Hadn't she seen that? She must have; Nellie had kept his razors safe and hidden for fifteen years. Why sell them off now, when she'd gone to so much trouble before? He didn't understand it.

His gaze alighted in an instant upon a small box, open to display the sleek treasures of his murderous vengeance. Carefully, he picked it up to grip one of the tools in his palm, flipping it open almost soundlessly. The weight of the metal, coupled by its coolness against his skin, was delightfully copasetic, but somehow the reunion was less of what he remembered or expected. Nonetheless, he took the box to the keeper of the shop in a haste to plead his case respectably.

"Here, sir, you see an act of injustice. These razors are mine, me being a barber, and the woman who sold them to you had not the liability to make such a decision. She had neither right nor authority, and I demand to be given compensation within these tools you see here. There will be no substitutions." He stated himself clearly, narrowing his eyes at the shopkeeper in a menacing fashion. The barber was still trying to sort out a reason for Mrs. Lovett's behavior when the shopkeeper put to him an answer that struck even more confusion into his cluttered thoughts.

"Unless you provide credibility for your story, there, sir, then I can only assume you are lying. I cannot give away my items to every bloke who comes along claiming they're his. If that happened, I'd be nowhere. At any rate, the person who sold it to me has the money. Find me that, and you get your razors. You said it were a woman, though; I can tell you now that it weren't no woman that sold me them tools." The man stared back at him without the same intensity, looking entirely bored with the situation. He looked between the barber and his razors before taking the box and moving past Sweeney to set it back in its place. As he went past he patted the barber's shoulder, appearing still to be thoroughly un-entertained. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Wait." Cringing away from the touch, Mr. Todd stopped the shopkeeper with his command. "I'll pay for them." It was a required move. He saw that the man would not acquiesce to a shave as proof by the way he seemed not to care about anything but assets and money. Later, he could always take back what Mrs. Lovett owed him, if it was in fact her who was indebted. The shopkeeper's comment made him wonder, and as he contemplated throwing the undeserved bouquet to the floor and stomping on it, he was also compelled to ask. "If I may inquire as to who sold them to you, sir…?"

The shopkeeper turned to face him, eyebrows raised in the first sign of curiosity in the matter, and made his way back to the counter at which he'd formerly been sitting. Still with his taut expression expanded in inquiry, the man took out a pair of small, round spectacles to set them briskly at the edge of his nose. He removed a tattered book of brown leather, documents sticking haphazardly from its pages, from the shelf closest to him to look through its contents. When he had finished and flipped the worn book closed, he stated his price – not a bad one, but still too much to pay for his own property – eagerly and followed the statement with an idle interest, displayed in his next drawl.

"Be that the case, sir, I can say that it were a boy who sold me your razors. Short lad, healthy and with brown hair, and about so tall," the shopkeeper held up a hand for emphasis. "His business were nothing to do with a madam, sir, so far as I can tell. He was quiet about it all, curiously so, but I don't make a point to ask questions. Does that help at all?"

The man peered up at him through his round spectacles, and Sweeney gave a curt nod of approval. He exchanged money for razors in silence, and left without a goodbye. The barber could feel the man's eyes on his back as he left, but he tried largely to ignore this prospect. Looks were of no concern to him when boys of not even ten years of age were suddenly getting away with stealing and selling his property. As far as he was concerned, Ragg was nothing. He would have killed him for this valiant effort of crime had the boy not meant so much to Eleanor. As it was, he would at least get by with strong accusations and threats of death. The barber was determined; he would have an explanation, or there would be blood for his reunion. Perhaps not killing blood, but blood all the same.

When he reached a distance within view of the numeral 186, he knew without a doubt that he would have no qualms about finding Tobias. Simply look to Mrs. Lovett, and within a very few yards would be her loyal dog at her feet. The power of this attraction was impressing, like the weight of an object to the ground, but he concentrated only on his inquisition. The boy was responsible for the disappearance of his most important companions, and he certainly required to know just why. Without a second thought, he burst through the rooms until he found the criminal, and took the vermin by his collar to press him against the wall with a vigorous jarring shake.

"My razors," he demanded through a clenched jaw. "When…! _Why…!_" The grip he had on the boy's shirt was at strangling point, had it been applied to Tobi's neck, and the look he served him was what implored the apprentice to squirm for fear. He kicked madly, his eyes squeezed tightly shut in his attempt of escape, but Mr. Todd was not to be outdone. The barber slammed Ragg's head to the wall in a daunting display of both force and lethal anger, and the boy then stared wide-eyed up at him.

"I-I'm…let go of me, Mr. Todd! I'm _not_ sorry! Put me down!" Again, Tobi lashed out with his legs, catching Sweeney in the gut more than once, but the barber did nothing more than wince. He pinned the apprentice at the structure at his back by his hair as well, and snarled into his face.

"You're not to touch my property, _boy_! Not under any circumstance. Is that clear?" He jabbed Tobi's head back into the wall again, and the apprentice made a small noise of protest. It was sickly satisfying, and so he did it again for the effect. Once more, Ragg whimpered between breaths, but he said nothing until the barber brandished one of his razors to the boy's neck.

"You," breathed Tobias loudly. "You hurt her, Sir. I seen it; I ain't dumb. Weeks after I had that dream you didn't go outside, and she was burnt all over. I can't let you do it again, Sir. I won't let you kill 'er! I see it – I see how she looks at you, how she does everythin' for you! And I seen how you treat 'er, too, Sir." He said this in great fervor, the words rushing out with his breath, but his eyes were alight with the innocent hatred the barber had noted beforehand. The boy glared directly back at Sweeney, the expression on his face bent to induce misery.

The barber didn't bother to tell the apprentice of his promise to himself, how he'd discovered these things, of how he'd vowed to be the best he could give to Eleanor under the circumstances. He doubted Tobi would understand or believe him – he hardly believed himself, as if was.

Instead, Mr. Todd yanked Ragg away from the wall and shoved him out of the way. He made a direct path for Nellie's door, and resisted the apprentice's trying to stop him. He held the flowers at his side in a vice worthy of snapping the stems in half, and shook Tobi from his arm as he reached the wooden panel. When he touched the knob, the apprentice attempted to rip the razor from his outstretched hand, but the movement of both was frozen when the door opened of its own accord.

"What's going on?" insisted Mrs. Lovett. "What on Earth is all this noise for?" She leaned against the doorframe in front of them, looking haggard and confused. Her question was like an accusation demanding quiet, and the baker gazed searchingly into his expression as he stood over her. He had no answer for her, and her eyes flickered to Tobi as the apprentice made himself known from behind Sweeney's back. "Mr. Todd…?" she questioned innocently. The familiar crinkle to her forehead allowed him the knowledge that she was thinking, perhaps troubled, and she was not sharing these thoughts through speech. To a degree, it irritated him.

When Ragg attempted to attract Nellie's attention through a series of obvious motions towards the razor in the barber's hand, Sweeney saw his limit. If this did not end soon, then he saw the apprentice becoming critically injured through his intentions. Therefore, having the clairvoyance to see Mrs. Lovett being slightly upset if anything happened to her precious boy, Mr. Todd pushed the bouquet into the baker, forcing her to accept it. Before she'd even had the time to look back up at him in a query, he had pushed past Tobias and was already halfway across the room.

He knew for certain that he wouldn't have to wait very long for Mrs. Lovett to follow him, and thus he didn't bother wasting breath on phrases such as "I need to speak with you" or "Come with me." In lieu of such things, he glared past her apprentice and strode right up to his parlor without missing a beat. He didn't waste time either, and prepared for the baker's deluge of questions as he placed his silver tools back in their proper place. Indubitably, she would ask questions. It would not be very like her not to, and in doing so she would attain his curiosity. If Mrs. Lovett did not ramble in her usual manner, after all, then it meant that something was wrong, and something that was wrong for her would usually by cause and effect mean something wrong for him.

True to expectation, the baker slipped into his shop after him just as he was arriving at the window ledge to look down upon the desolate city. She was not at all very quiet in her attempt; the bell atop the door jingled recklessly, and the door shut with a clap behind her. Despite this, however, Eleanor made her way to where he stood and looked over his shoulder at the razor he held aloft to the light. She lingered a moment, glancing to him sideways and her breath tickling down his neck, before turning back around with a sigh and collapsing into the center-placed chair. From her reflection in his treasure, he saw her lean her head back and close her eyes as if spent, but she soon opened them to stare at the ceiling, and then lifted her head to stare at _him_.

"So what's all this fuss about, eh?" she asked tiredly. "Is this on the account of them razors of yours, love?" Her eyes passed over the tool in his hand before focusing again on his back, but he did not turn. She leaned forward to prop her chin on a hand and regard him in a heady gaze, anticipating his answer, but he only followed her image in the reflection of his blade and squinted at it as if that would somehow make it less intrusive.

It had been a long night. Even worse was the fact that it was not over. In the morning, they would have to continue on with business as usual, but he wondered how exactly they could just go back to normality and strive to blend in, especially if Tobi now knew. Before, his suspicions had been without proof, but now he had all the evidence he needed to go to the law and get them both hanged. Not that it wouldn't happen eventually – it was inevitable – but it seemed all so pointless to simply die after all that had happened. Was it enough? He wouldn't see Lucy, and he didn't particularly wish to. To end his existence so abruptly after finally establishing a solid identity and the closest he could get to a purpose, he wasn't' so sure if death was the preferred option.

"The boy knows," Sweeney put forth. He watched through his blade as Mrs. Lovett's gaze snapped up in something like bewilderment. "We have to get rid of him, Eleanor; he can put two and two together. You told him it was a dream, but that didn't explain our injuries. He came to a conclusion on his own, and obviously, he knows it was more than just a dream."

The baker blinked several times as if in disbelief, opened her mouth, and then shook her head. Her curls moved in tandem with the gesture, and he saw her expression darken to a scowl. He knew she would not approve of the idea to get rid of the apprentice, but there was little else they could do aside from having a death wish. If she did not agree, then he would be forced to go about the procedure against her will, and this was displeasing to them both.

"Mr. T, that's ludicrous!" Nellie proclaimed. "We will do no such thing! He's done nothing so far, and you know he must have known for awhile if he noticed all that from our injuries!"

Her gaze was pleading, and though the phrase "nothing so far" did a good job of rubbing him the wrong way, he knew it was useless to argue. She had a clear point, and sound logic. If Tobias had not gone to the law yet, then it was possible he would not do so at all. When he thought on it, then it made more sense considering the boy loved to hand about Mrs. Lovett so much. In fact, Ragg had sold off his razors to protect the woman.

"Alright," he said grudgingly. Examining the baker's relief through her reflection, he found it to be very pleasing. If she was happy, then that meant she would leave faster and he could be alone with his friends altogether, though that prospect seemed less appealing than it had been before. "He has to be watched," he added. "Keep an eye on him. Keep him busy."

Nodding in approval of the circumstances, Eleanor seemed much more comfortable in staying in her place than he expected. She sat back in the worn chair and ran a hand absently through her tangled mass of hair, examining him much as he examined her. It tugged on his former sense of incineration, and he felt the razor grow tighter in his palm as the rough charring unfolded within him and grew to spread.

"I don't know, Mr. T," Eleanor admitted. "What is it you see in them things, anyway? They're only cold silver." Her face in the reflection was grim, and it was trembling. From somewhere beneath the flames, which had utilized the opportunity to overtake his senses, he knew that it was the razor and his hand that was quaking – not Mrs. Lovett herself. Though it was a very minute shaking, it blurred her image before him until he had to squint through the fire to see her pallid cheeks, or her charcoal eyes.

The baker met his gaze evenly and unknowingly, watching his turmoil in interest. From the look of her, she would have thought it was something she said that caused this reaction. In reality, Sweeney had no clear idea of what it really was. He knew only the face that stood out before him, garbled through its movement but the only thing alight in the dim grays of London.

Without putting any thought to the matter, he replied: "Beauty."


	9. Quick Drop, Short Stop

A/N: Guess what?? You get two chapters in a row!! Merry Christmas!! Or, legally I should say happy holidays....how about merry whatever wonderful thing you celebrate around winter? I can't possibly cover every religion... Ah, well. You get the point. So this was a very fun chapter to write - I think you'll see why. Cheers!

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Quite reasonably, she thought, Mrs. Lovett had anticipated questioning the barber on the flowers he'd given her. Though the gift was anything but given pleasantly, nothing to her could have been more pleasant than receiving a bouquet of flowers from the unexpectedly generous Sweeney Todd. It was not every day that she acquired even a simple glance from the barber, and so the flowers were altogether unwarranted. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why they'd been given or what that meant, but neither was she given the chance to consider or ask questions.

He seemed to quiver from his distance, whether from anger or some other force she couldn't be sure, and it led her to wonder if it might be what she'd said that caused his silent trembling. The expression of his achromatic features was far from sanguine, and it was concerning to her for something to be so blatantly wrong when the cause was so out-of-reach. He continued to stare at his shivering razor as if entranced, but he squinted as if struggling to see. When he turned, it was to gaze directly at _her_, and to walk sharply to her side with his silver tool held suspiciously aloft.

Upon meeting her eyes, Mr. Todd quickly flipped closed his weapon and slid it into its place at his side, but he did not halt in his advancements. He continued instead to stride carefully to a place just before her, and the strange spark in his gaze was like nothing she'd ever encountered in him before. The baker had difficulty placing the emotion, and it interested her immensely, for there were few emotions she could not recognize in Sweeney. He allowed his gaze to search over her face as she watched, and it wasn't until he was already coming upon her like a predator to its prey that she registered where exactly his black eyes had lingered.

She was pressed rather forcibly against the back of the chair by the weight of Mr. Todd's applied strength to her shoulders, and a momentary flash of hysteria passed before her mind as he clamped her arms in a vice worthy of magnetic attraction. This, however, was quickly dissolved into an even greater provocation when the barber's ungoverned lips grazed over hers in a striking impact that left her feeling dizzy and light-headed as her breath was stolen. He knew no restraint as he rammed his mouth into hers as if trying to push right through her, and his tongue burned in her throat as he scourged the interior of her mouth. Surely, there would be bruises tomorrow where he held her now, but still he compelled her to disregard this minor source of pain as his lips scraped over her own.

The baker was vaguely aware of the indistinguishable syllables that were torn from her vocals as he poured over her, but more occupied was she with following his movements and the way he dragged himself yet closer until he was poised directly over her with one knee upon the chair beside her lap. The other foot was planted firmly upon the floor as the barber broke from her to come again and hastily capture and encompass her lips. She felt the vibrations of his voice, carried by a jagged breath, on her fingertips across his chest and on her lips as well. His actions then became deliberately slower, stretching out her patience when he came at another angle with a sudden languid sense to his attacks.

He perused her face with his incensed kisses at a trailing rate, breathing hotly on her smoldering skin and freeing her mouth for breath. Taking this opportunity in a rush, Nellie was quick to gasp in a full breath before questioning the barber. Clouded was her mind and warm was her core, but she knew for certain that this was not the man who had declared his vengeance upon Judge Turpin. The fervor in his actions was too much, though it was empty, and his faith to his deceased wife would never have allowed him such drastic measures. Whatever he had in mind, it might very well have been yet another scheme to take her life.

Though clear instinct wrought within her the urge to fight Mr. Todd from her position at this thought, she knew this was not sensible. An even stronger instinct gripped her soon after in correlation to the barber's serrated breath in her ear, and his cruel teeth on her neck. The only indication of this being a reality, and not another dream firmed as she still slept, was in the knowledge that she did not have this good of an imagination. And even if she would somehow be able to create such a vivid illusion, it would never have begun as harsh as this.

These were all the details her fancies had left out; he was utterly emphatic and unbearably difficult to resist, as well as unearthly terrifying. His eyes blazed across her flesh as did his lips, and they were like dark embers in their ability to incinerate so dexterously. The bite of his fangs and his claws against the delicate structure of her skin was a chafing anguish as it was coupled by the tingling flame just below her colorless flesh, but it was not at all uncongenial. His daring lips and festering touch were tryingly pleasant, though his intentions were unfathomable.

"Sweeney," she whispered in a zealous breath, and she felt her skin chill and prickle as he inhaled a sharp draught of air upon her neck. "What are you doing, you silly man? What's all this about, hmm?" The baker bit her upper lip for this, knowing it would cost her dearly. Whatever tradition she'd broken with using his presiding name was better of left alone, but it was already far too late. The soft caress of the air across the back of her neck was the only portent she was given to let her know that he was still, in fact, breathing.

She waited for the longest of times, but yet he spoke not a word in that time, all the while assailing her throat with an unparalleled brutality. When at last he made his reply, it was made so raucous that the sound of his voice was enough to distract her from his words. He did not lift his head to say it, and so his sentence was strained against his unrelenting kisses.

"Eleanor, shut it," he said, but his tone sounded like anything but what was intended. He remained positioned just above her as she struggled with the thought of somehow fighting his raid on her senses, and his every minute shift of stature corresponded to hers. It seemed dauntingly impossible to resist something so tempting, especially when it was something she'd been waiting for over fifteen years to finally receive. She didn't know what to think of it all, the way it happened so abruptly, and it appeared to her much more difficult that she'd ever imagined to simply breathe as required.

All too soon, the barber backed away from her. The movement was equally sudden, and appeared even to be slightly unbalanced. Before she could even wonder at this course of events, she felt hr stomach flip and her world turn over, and saw Mr. Todd tumble back towards her in a fashion considered close to frantic. This happened all in a matter of a few small seconds, and it induced a blank confusion upon her cluttered mind. Whatever reversed her vision was darker than it should have been, and though it had not bothered her at all before, Sweeney was remarkably and uncouthly close for two unmarried adults in their position.

By the time her frazzled conscience made the connection to what had happened, Nellie was already hurtling head-first for the cold floor of the bakehouse, clinging to the man who growled a string of curses into her ear. They clung fast to each other as the darkness rushed past, having no better solution than to remain in one steady position, and Mrs. Lovett felt many things in a very small amount of time. A subtle whimper pushed out from her lips as her heart worked in erratic shoves to come out of her chest, and she felt the air as it brushed past her like a draft. Her throat was coated in a film of dry, and when she swallowed she felt it pushing against a lump.

This could be the last moment she'd ever have in this world. It was a very small thought that hid in the hoard of the rest, but she grabbed it and held onto it. This could be her last chance to say anything to the barber. Though she had to agree with the fact that death was not quite so bad if it followed having kissed Mr. Todd, or better yet, to share it between them both as they died together – in each other's arms. Of course, she knew nothing could work out quite so perfectly.

"I love you," she blurted as the floor became visible and a minimal amount of light lit their passing. "Sweeney, I love you."

He didn't even flinch. The baker knew better than to expect any reaction from Mr. Todd, but it was rather disappointing nonetheless to find him uncaring as ever to her opinions. She felt the last of her resolve crumble as certain death approached, and quickly buried her face in his shoulder so as not to see it as it came. There, she felt his pulse as quick as her own, and closed her eyes to the onslaught of displaced air. At least, Eleanor considered, she would not die alone.

"Are you mad?" the barber growled into her ear. "Move, I said!" He grabbed the back or her head in a violent grip and pushed her chin past his shoulder with a palm as he concentrated in bending through the air as if it was not an effort at all. The barber forced her spine to bend farther back than it should have and twisted her hips into his as he swung them around, and he continued to thrash until they were virtually parallel to the stone floor, though slightly diagonal, and he was with his back facing these stones. All within less than a second, he'd substantially lessened the threat of death to almost a minimum of nothing, and she was awed for it.

His maneuver was flawless, inducing her to wonder just why she'd not thought of such a thing. It might have been a hard thing to do, but surely nothing wasn't worth a try on the brink of death. The concept seemed silly to her now, to believe that it would be her life's end by a simple fall. It was a ready accident to be made, and it was prone to be made eventually. Nowhere in that called for death, and Mrs. Lovett refused for an accident to be the inevitable end of her. The ridiculousness of her former belief cast a sudden shame on her rash words, but she argued viably that there ought not to be anything to be ashamed of if she'd meant them, which she certainly had.

What little air resided in her lungs was promptly crushed out form her lips as a breathless gasp on impact, and she felt the coarse jolt jar through her bones as she heard Mr. Todd groan a complaint underneath her. Her ears were still ringing from the whistle of the air past her face, and there was naught but silence consecutive to their striking the steadfast ground. Except for her own vigorous panting and the barber's vicious growls of discomfort, she heard only the impenetrable buzzing. It filled her head with an excess of frustrating sound, but it left her with one firm belief: she was still very much alive.

Giving a lavish sigh, the baker relaxed her taut muscles as the threat was no longer present. She rolled off of Sweeney to lie next to him on her side, facing his irked expression. He did not look to her, but she could feel his thoughts being directed upon her. He remained utterly still upon the cobbled, stone floor, and she was loathe to shift her position or move to get up lest the moment somehow be broken. Her arm still rested atop his chest where she hadn't bothered to lift it, and she could feel underneath her fingertips the quickened pace of his human heartbeat. It thudded against her palm as she flattened it there with a satisfying pulse, neither slowing nor thrashing harder, and his calm, even breaths despite this contradiction gave her a sense of pride in seeing beyond the plain exterior.

Finally, he turned to meet her eye. He turned, met her eye, and launched himself forward with the speed of the demon that had eaten his soul. In an instant, he was on top of her, thrusting her shoulder blades into the solid, impenetrable floor with an unnoticed bite to her nerves, and carving his lips into hers. It was something she was completely unprepared for, and she felt a shocked whimper as it died in her throat when he twisted his posture to match hers. Through his pleasure, he invoked a dangerous competition in her mind that refused to allow her the relief of remaining idle and passive to his intrusion. This time, she resisted his attempts and pushed the weight of his advances in the other direction as she forced his aggression back onto him in a new series of blazing kisses. He grimaced against her lips, and she took the advantage of this moment to draw back and look across every inch of his seamless beauty.

Staring back in a mirrored fascination, Mr. Todd breathed out a long breath against her delicate skin and raked himself away from her. She looked after him as he broke the connection, and wondered sincerely of his outlook upon her. From what she knew, she was despised and threatened with death, but how curiously he seemed to disregard those clear constants in an act first of generosity, and then of an unparalleled passion.

"Don't expect this to be a recurring occasion," stated the barber bluntly. He stood slowly, gazing down at her with a hardened frown, and then she knew that his motives were naught but cruelty. He intended to keep her devotion through having her whenever he felt like it, but entirely ignoring her existence the rest of the time. A good part of her simply wouldn't have it since such behavior was directed towards the weak and exceedingly immoral, but an even larger chunk of herself could not escape the temptation. For just a moment every once-in-a-while, he was purely _hers_. It was too enticing of a concept to simply let go.

"Didn't say I did," she replied just as sharp. "Matter of fact, didn't think it would be an even to speak of. What's got into you, Mr. T?"

Sending her an impenetrable sideways glance, the barber did not speak to answer her. He straightened his disheveled appearance with a rough jerk to his collar and a fierce brushing to the dust that clung to his sleeves, and stepped around her with a disappointing sense of abandon. Walking in purposefully elongated strides, Sweeney reached the door long before Eleanor had a chance to even move, and it left her struggling to trip after him. The baker was just shutting the metal contraption as he was coming to the top of the stairs, and she was just reaching the shop as he was tearing his way up towards his.

Sighing and shaking her head as she watched his back depart into his cold parlor, the baker entered into her own in anticipation of a long night. Whatever he meant by kissing her with so much thirst, and then leaving her just as quickly, she was sure it couldn't mean anything good for her except, perhaps, that she had gotten part of what she wanted. What she wanted, however, was not strictly physical, as his motive had been. He was a very mysterious man, she had to admit, but he had not always been so. This was only the beginning of her problem.

If she survived even another year with Mr. Todd – if he'd not yet killed her – then she would be utterly out of her mind by the end of it. There was nothing stopping her from becoming equally insane as the barber's former wife, and even as she knew it, it scared her.

"Oh…! Mrs. Lovett, Ma'am, thank goodness!"

Starting violently at the voice as it arrested her from about the corner, Eleanor twisted around until she could see clearly who it belonged to. She left her worrying for later and hastened to the side of the unexpected guest, seeing him with another, and asked the matter when she saw the blotchy streaks that ran amuck down Johanna's fair face. The girl looked up grimly, revealing her melting gaze, and swallowed silently to answer in Anthony's stead. She appeared entirely too terrified to even speak, but somehow the words made their way smoothly from her lips to set the baker's mind on yet another whirl of confusion.

"They're coming," said Johanna. "We've tried to stop them, but…they won't hear what we have to say. They've already asked what they wanted, and it seemed to be enough. I hope you'll forgive us; we hadn't any other choice but to tell them. You have to leave this place, the both of you. Where is…my father?"

For a moment all she could do was stare at the distraught girl. Then, as it all seemed to rush upon her in an onerous bundle, the questions came. Who did she mean by "they", and why were they coming? More important to finding the key aspect of why the girl was so upset, what were they going to do when they came? The baker had a nagging suspicion that it would not be good to find out, judging from the actions of Johanna and her sailor boy. When two persons supposedly having left for France weeks ago suddenly show up weeks later harboring what seemed to be distressingly bad news, nothing could be very good about what followed.

"Slow down, love," she said at last. Coming to sit by the unquiet couple, she looked across at their insistent gazes and dropped hers to the hem of her dress. "Now, what is all this?"

"No, you don't understand," Anthony put to her urgently. "We don't have time for this! They're coming _now_! We arrived as fast as we could, but at most it would only have spared you a few moments. Where's Mr. Todd? We have to leave."

Standing as he did, Eleanor was at eye-level with the sailor in a locked stare as he tried to convey his point sincerely. She glanced to Johanna, fisting her dress, and Anthony, still with his eyes narrowed upon hers. They said nothing at her blank expression, so she wracked her mind for something to ask. Once she found it, however, no sound was emitted from her will to speak.

"Who's coming?" she half-whispered, looking between the two guests for her answer. Neither seemed all too inclined to provide her with an answer, and she became quickly impatient with their reluctance. If they wanted her to hurry, then they weren't going to get by without telling her just why, first. Otherwise, she was certain that she wasn't going anywhere in such a rush without good reason. Their nervous manner was beginning to make her feel slightly on-edge, allowing her to wish she could go bring Sweeney down to interpret these children's riddles, but she knew that it would do worse for her if she were to drag him down for nothing.

"The constables, Ma'am," answered Johanna quietly. Her tone, as well as her words, sent a creeping chill up Nellie's spine, and the sailor looked back to her to take her hand in a gesture that almost went unnoticed in her anxiety. In that instant, it all fell into place for Mrs. Lovett, and she fully understood their reason for haste. She knew she should have expected this sooner, and by no means did she blame anyone but herself for the incident, but she still found herself wondering exactly why this had to come on a night such as this. Now, for sure, the baker knew that it was going to be a long night as predicted, or perhaps longer. This all depended on if they weren't all dead by morning, and on how much time they were left with. Now, more than ever, timing was everything.

"He's upstairs," said the baker in answer to the former question. Shifting in staccato movements towards the edge of the room, she added, "I'll go get him."

Their eyes pursued her to the door, and Nellie felt herself almost tremulous in her sudden wild panic. With prudence, she inhaled a long, deep breath before her ascension in the hopes that it would calm her nerves. There was no sense in wasting time tripping over herself for such a scramble because, initially, this would get them caught quicker than if she simply concentrated on the essentials, and not the worries. She glanced out at the street as she came to Mr. Todd's door in a nervous action, and took another ample breath. Now, she wondered what she would say to the barber.

Fortunately, she was left little to no time for hesitation before the door shot open in front of her to reveal the accusatory stare that was Mr. Todd. He blocked the gap and stopped her from entering with his body, but looked across her face in a mild curiosity for her disheveled appearance. This brought her more confidence than his short "what?" and aided her in forcing out the criminal words, knowing he was interested in what ailed her. She opened her mouth once, closed it, and began again as he raised his chin in waiting.

"Your daughter and that boy are downstairs, Mr. Todd. They have something to say that you might want to hear. We need to leave," she said. "So take what you need and come on down because it seems like we don't have much time to spare." She met his calculating gaze with an urgency that insisted he do as she say, and he responded with a slight gape as the intelligent light flared into his eyes.

"The law," he breathed at her. She nodded, and he looked out at the street in a similar panic as she had preceding his grabbing her arm and thrusting her into the room. "Where's Tobi?" he growled, stalking her to the wall with his glare as he deftly sought out his razors and the picture frame from opposite ends of the space. This time, she shook her head towards his advances.

"I don't know," she admitted, and the barber sneered back at her. Taking her wrist, he pulled her alongside as he pushed past the door and down the stairs. Gladly, she followed, but it was not fast enough for his taste. Tugging harder on her slender arm, he kept the baker close at his side upon entering her shop, and then jolted her in the direction of the hallway.

"Go find him," Sweeney ordered mercilessly. His eyes gave her a cautious reason to be quick about his request, and he watched her from his position as she ambled about the space provided in search of the elusive apprentice.

The barber's first thought, as she well knew, would have been that Tobias had gone to turn them in to the law. Though this was extravagantly ridiculous in her mind, considering the boy's obvious fondness of her, Nellie was finding it resentfully easy to believe in Tobi's absence. The troublesome child was unusually difficult to find, though she called for him directly, and it was very unlike him. When she looked back to Sweeney, she saw him surveying her from their distance with a knowing sort of look that set her stomach to churning violently. He seemed to be waiting none-too-patiently for her conclusion, and he seemed all too certain of his own.

"He didn't," she insisted meekly. She maintained eye-contact through her quiet statement, as did the barber through his smug atmosphere, but could not allow herself to elaborate due to the pressure squeezing together her airways. Mr. Todd monopolized her attention when he made a move towards her, and she might have given up oxygen altogether at the passing flicker that shot through his stony expression in that moment of hesitance. It was as unrecognizable to her as the distant shores of France, and equally fascinating. The streak of something she couldn't place was long gone and kept at bay below the barber's constant maintenance of solitude before Eleanor could even blink, but she was sure she had seen it. Whatever it was, it gave her a liberal amount of relief as a witness.

"Find him, then," he insisted in a softer fashion, his expression belying his tone. "Where are Anthony and Johanna?" He looked around as he said it, as if just then realizing that they could be in that same room, and then focused his ebony gaze back onto the baker. In it, she saw an imperiousness that didn't quite fit given her knowledge of the barber. He seemed to see it as imperative that they escape, that they escape together, and that they live. For this, there was no evidence of the past to justify his actions in the present, and her wandering had her staring across at Sweeney in her ponderous curiosity until he gave her a fierce look that invaded her thoughts.

"Well…?" he prompted flatly, and she started on the spot in the discovery that she should have answered him awhile ago.

"Oh…!" Nellie exclaimed. "I'm sorry; they're in the other room over there. They say we need to hurry."

Turning on her as he made his way to where she'd indicated, he narrowed on her a piercing glare that froze her in her motion of stepping back down the hall to look for Tobi. She did not miss the small convulsion that went to his hand to draw out his blade, but he fisted it before it was given the chance, and she saw him grit his teeth to say, "Go, then! Get your head straight, woman!" He then swung around to storm from the room, leaving Eleanor to gape at his wake.

She continued to look for the missing apprentice after she remembered her own advice, and she felt her mind twisted around so many various things all at once that it was altogether quite impossible to think in a normal fashion. Eleanor found herself worried beyond belief at the entire situation, and left in the dark on more than one aspect – especially what she'd seen in Mr. Todd earlier, and how quickly his moods seemed to switch. It was one thing to be anxious and frustrated – to be sure, the baker knew that those were a description of her as well – but it was another to suddenly be so angry over something she couldn't even comprehend, much less angry at _her_.

It became clear, after an interval, that Tobias was not readily available to come at her calling. Perhaps she was not calling loud enough, but that was a risk she was not willing to take. The list of probabilities could go on for as long as it took her to stand too long and get spotted by the constables when they came. Instead of lingering upon these, Mrs. Lovett resolved not to bother herself over it, and made her way to where Sweeney and their company would have been. The longer they waited, the closer they were to a doomed trial that ended in a hanging, and four pairs of eyes were much better than one.

Each head was turned in her direction upon her entering the room, each looking a very different aspect of worried. Anthony was the one that approached her first, before she could speak her mind, and both Sweeney and Johanna appeared to be avoiding her gaze. The barber gave the floor a heated glare as his daughter watched her sailor when he stopped before Mrs. Lovett. He showed nothing but concern as he said his part, but his underlying urgency was evident in his voice.

"I'm sorry about the child, Ma'am," he said, "but…we have to leave. If we stay here, we'll be put on trial and killed – all of us. You have to understand…"

Her eyes flickered to Mr. Todd as this was put to her, watching him in his unmoving silence and acute ire. He did not return this look, but instead remained with his hands folded neatly before him, staring a blank fury at the floor, as if waiting to pounce at any given moment. Again, he reminded her of some shadowy, unknown predator lurking in wait of the opportune moment. Neither did he seem to mind that she cared for him a little more than she wished to announce, if she hadn't announced it already, or that the only good thing that had happened to her in fifteen years was apt to be thrown away for an escape.

"It's alright, dear…" she answered the sailor, keeping her eyes trained on Mr. Todd's unreadable expression. "I understand. I'll be alright."

…and even still, she was willing to drop that only good thing at a moment's notice for _him_.

"You must go," Nellie pondered. "Down in the bakehouse – down those stairs just there – there's a grate that leads down to the sewers. We can't be seen, so take that, and it will lead you to the channel. Don't wait for me; I'll come soon enough."

This caught the attention of Johanna and the barber, and it was the latter that interrupted her attempt to leave. Her hands still occupied with clutching the material of her dress in her lap, the girl looked up to say, "Are you going to search for the child?"

The same question must have been floating around in the barber's head, for he glanced to his daughter in something close to approval before he looked back to Eleanor for the answer. His stare was overbearing, catching her in three curious pairs of eyes, and his was sharper than the others. If it had been only him, and if it had been under any other circumstance, then she was sure she would have burst.

"No," she answered quietly. "No, I just need to get a few things into order before I go. Besides, I'm sure he'll come around when he sees we're all leaving. The boy's got sense, after all. Don't bother yourselves with me; I'll be right behind you. Now, go on!"

Despite her implied haste, none moved from their spot. Anthony turned to Sweeney then, exchanging a small glance with Johanna as he did so, and looked across at the barber's hardened features. She watched as the girl stood to move towards the sailor, and then as she stood at his side to latch onto his arm for fear. Both directed their gaze at Mr. Todd, but it was the sailor as always to ask the question.

"Does this mean you're coming with us, then, Mr. Todd?" he inquired.

Sweeney looked up from the floor then, sending Anthony a look with his eyes narrowed and his eyebrows raised that made it quite clear what his answer was before it was said. He kept his eyes on the sailor for a moment, met Nellie's for an even shorter time, and then concentrated on the boards underfoot once more. When he opened his mouth, he seemed to keep it ajar for an extraordinary amount of time in debate of what to say before finally snapping, "Of course not."

His reply sent a bulk of confusion through the minds of his listeners, Mrs. Lovett especially, but it was Anthony who gathered the courage, once again, to ask. He looked to be on the verge of taking a step forward towards the barber in his perplexion, but Johanna anchored him in his place. Her chocolate gaze, so much like her father's had been, rested for a moment on each face in her intuition and anxiety, but lingered the most on the boy at her side. She dared to stare, looking unconditionally fascinated, and yet somehow disappointed. For all this, it was easy to see that the girl did not know herself; she was too young, and had been locked up for too long. She was not, however, by any means naïve. From her boundless stare, Eleanor could discern the same bleak pessimism and practicality that came with hardships and wisdom that had taken _her_ fifteen years to patient yearning to build up.

"You're staying with Mrs. Lovett, then," stated Anthony in a more inquisitive manner.

This time, Mr. Todd's response was more immediate, coming more promptly than the last. He nodded once in the affirmative, not bothering to speak, and walked in slow, creaking, exaggerated steps to Eleanor. There, he stood silently at her side as if awaiting some sort of command, and raised his chin to survey the sailor and his rescue. Not once did he look to the baker, and though she was inclined to gape mildly in her bewilderment, he took care not to notice.

It was then that Anthony and Johanna chose to depart, looking back with concern etched over their regretful expressions. Declaring that they would wait for Eleanor and the barber, the girl took her partner's arm and let him lead her away in grim silence. This left Mrs. Lovett and the barber to their own devices, and it was something that put Nellie on edge more than when the two were present. Mr. Todd remained as unphased as ever, unmoving at her side except to blink or breathe, and hardly that. He did not look to her when she glanced across to him, nor when she motioned towards the other end of the room.

Only when she commenced to stuff one of her dresses into a satchel did he seem to notice her presence, and he came to her as she continued to struggle with the item. Taking it from her swiftly, he shoved the dress into the sack in one fluid motion to fling it onto her bed effortlessly, and rounded on her with an air of more annoyance than she deserved. With his cold eyes fixed upon her, she felt liable to simply freeze and sink into the wall behind her, and his cutting words that went with his sharp look did not help her in resisting.

"We don't have time for that," he said roughly. "Get your things and hand them to me, and I'll do this. Be quick about it."

Huffing in her own defense, the baker set out to find what she needed in a timely manner. Sweeney did not conceal his obvious skepticism over the articles she handed him: two more dresses, one plain and grey, and the other slightly more refined with dark green stripes and trim. He glanced over the dresses as if to say "This is it?" and looked to her in anticipation, but she simply handed him a brush and went on with her search for the whereabouts of stockings. Watching her as she hurried about the room, Mr. Todd gained the mannerism of a fox whose prey had just escaped. He stared, his eyes following her back and forth impatiently and making her feel mildly uncomfortable. The only thing that proved to distract him was when she stopped, almost in fright, to quickly recover a small, blue book from underneath her mattress. This, she handed to him carefully, and he surveyed it in interest before taking it equally as hesitant and putting it gently among her other things.

The last thing on her mental list was money, because there was no getting anywhere without it. Sweeney being as impatient as ever, she recovered enough to get through what seemed to her to be a couple of months disregarding any luxuries, and counted it out as he stood over her. The man watched every coin as it disappeared into her purse like it was a threat to their well-being, and shot a good many unforgiving glances in the direction of the door. If it was possible to be any more nervous than she was already, then he made her so. When she finally handed him the small sum – small in comparison to what she knew they might need – he snatched it from her like a dog to its food, and shoved it in among her other belongings as if it had suddenly caught fire.

Taking her wrist in his cold clutches, the barber slung the satchel onto his shoulder in a simultaneous motion to dragging her through the parlor. He kept his eyes on their destination – the door – in a glare that might have killed anything with a heartbeat, and took no notice of her vain attempt to wring herself free of his death-grip. She tried without success to get him to at least loosen the painful vice, and all but bumped into him when he suddenly stopped.

Jolting forward into Mr. Todd's side, Nellie winced when his grip tightened, and gave a ferocious attempt to both bite her tongue and claw his hand away. They were halfway through the room, then, when the heavy footsteps reached her distant hearing, and the slamming of the door reminded her that she should have locked it against the intrusion. Unfortunately, it was too late for regrets, and she felt every nerve in her system thrumming with some electrical force that ran through them, edging her every movement with a twinge of wide-eyed anxiety. It only became stronger as the barber jerked her back towards the nearest wall, and she blinked past a moment of dizzy, breathless, blank terror as he covered her mouth and pressed her flat to the wall and his side.

With her lips pressed to Sweeney's palm, caging her unvoiced shriek, she swallowed against a dry throat when the loaded footsteps thudded slowly closer. The baker could hear voices, but could not distinguish what they were saying, and could feel a tremor pass through Mr. Todd's body against hers. In spite of herself, she felt a chill shoot up her own spine at the proximity, and then felt his fingers tighten over her mouth as a whimper escaped them when a shadow thudded into the room. Slowly, she moved her head to look up at the barber, and then Eleanor blinked as she saw the wicked smirk across his face and the uneven breath from his chest. He met her fearful gaze in that moment, and the hand across her lips trailed down from her cheeks to meet with the chill handle of his trusted tool.


	10. Flit, Fly, Flee: Race to the Sea

A/N: Well...this chapter certainly took forever - and I mean _forever_ - to write. It's really short, and it was gonna be longer, except it kept giving me so much trouble. I had great expectations for it, I really did....but then my life decided to go *screechboom* as life often does, so this is what you get. I hope you like it, anyway. Stuff actually happens in this chapter! Oh yes, and one of my good friends recently got an image of a Bob the Builder Sweeney Todd stuck in my head, so thanks for that. It can be scary... Cheers!

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Very quickly, he saw her concern harden into something altogether different, and Mrs. Lovett launched herself at him to latch onto his razor and grapple with it in order to tear it from his hand. He did not relinquish it with ease, and the silence was deafening in their locked movement. It seemed that the shadowed figure drawing ever closer might notice at any moment as he slowly began to regain control of his blade, but nothing happened at all for the longest of times. The baker was intent upon hindering his aim, and though he tried to convince her to let go with strength alone, it was not enough. Neither was this method very fast, and Mr. Todd knew it would be a wonder if they ever survived.

"Stop it," she hissed at him, presumably in desperation as she glanced sideways towards the constable. "That'll do no good; there's only more where this one came from. Mr. T, how do you mean by going on like this? Let go!"

"No!" he growled back. She winced as he said it, but he refused to let her have her way. Eleanor fought against him in a shameful desolation, and they struggled in utter silence until the satchel was half off his shoulder and the constable was only a couple of steps away from revealing their presence. Sweeney knew it was a match Nellie couldn't win, but that did nothing to stop her from trying. They were equal in their tenacity, and that was enough to keep them each holding to the weapon even as the officer plotted his course towards their direction.

The battle of pulling and tugging turned into a contest of who could glare the other into submission as their awareness of their impending discovery grew, and this was a contest Mr. Todd wasn't entirely prepared to participate in. It wasn't often that he was looking at her so directly, and it was difficult to keep glaring when it was so much easier to simply gape. She seemed distracted by his stare as much as he, and he thought past this to formulate an easier plan. By this time, he knew she couldn't win, and so did she.

She was left helpless to the perfect execution of his movement, and he discarded her weakened resistance in an instant with a simple upward twitch of the lips. The smooth metal gave way immediately to slip right through her fingers upon his manipulation of her malleable emotions, and he found he was rather enjoying it at his further exploit. He leaned forward in a discreet movement that would be virtually invisible beyond the shadow to place his lips deliberately upon her cheek, and her frozen shock prompted his familiar flame to return to eat at his concentration.

"Thank you, my pet," he breathed out across her pallid skin, and the words held a certain meaning beyond what he was counting on in his obvious mockery. The delicate touch worked to ignite his burning encumberment, and he resisted the urge to both sigh and obey the parched thirst.

The baker did nothing as he stole back his silver prize and aimed for the constable's throat, as if she were just as dazed as he. In perfecting his aim, he stopped to consider this, and wondered at how his hand had somehow become caught in hers. Puzzled at how it had gotten there at all, the thought distracted him until Eleanor had the audacity to gasp into his ear, and the sound was like a lever to his mind that pulled his thoughts back towards the source. She seemed not to have noticed just yet what she had done, and so she simply blinked up to him in the silence that surrounded them. It was the kind of silence only brought about when anticipation was locked just below stiff muscles and shallow breath, and Mr. Todd found his fingers curling about her hand at the movement that was displayed in front of them, his nails biting at her skin.

Seeming to have realized her error, Mrs. Lovett became very still at his side, and her hand tightened around his. It was too dark for him to see whether she was looking at him or not, but Sweeney was glad for it and respected whatever reasoning that had led the baker to ridding the place of any light before they left. Now, it served to disguise them in its shadows from the looming officer, when they might have been caught had there been light.

A sickening excitement upturned in the pit of his stomach, burning up his veins with every labored beat of his heart to affect each of his senses in a stifling peak of awareness. He felt he could hear every rattling breath taken by the constable in front of them, and noticed that Eleanor appeared not to be breathing at all. With these senses roaring in his head, he felt it very light, and strained to see through the velvet darkness at the rustle of clothing. The barber could almost see the indefinite shape of the officer moving towards Nellie with an arm outstretched, and she shrank back closer to him under the advance.

Mrs. Lovett was right; attempt to slit the constable's throat, and he risked attracting more from even the slightest of noises. It was unfortunate, but he knew he could not take on more than one or two officers with a simple razor when they had clubs and pistols as well as the leverage of threatening the baker, who was without a weapon. Protecting Eleanor was a task not easily taken on, considering the trouble imposed by the shadow reaching for her, getting closer to touching her with unjust fingers with each passing moment. He was left with only one choice.

Biting back a sigh, he drew his razor into the air above his head and lashed out with it, flinging it from his palm in one great sweep towards the door of the adjoining room. With the consequential clatter invoked by its interrupted landing, even Mr. Todd was slightly surprised at how much noise he'd actually produced. His right hand now suddenly bereft of the familiar weight, he let it fall to his side as the moving shadow before them halted. Only a tiny amount of space separated the tips of the officer's fingers and Mrs. Lovett's vulnerable neck, and the barber was sated with the retreat that he'd caused.

Quicker now, the constable pulled away to go investigate the source of the sudden racket, and the mark of his heavy footsteps on the wooden floor announced his departure. With each step away, the tension that had pulled together his chest was loosened until at last, as the footsteps vanished into the next room, the baker's uncomfortable movement at his side led him to recognize that they still had quite a ways to go. More constables were sure to come, and haste was essential to survival.

Therefore, taking a step away from the wall, he induced Nellie to follow him with light footsteps and a careful course. His hand in hers suspended both their arms between them like a rope, and he secured the knot with a delicate tug that pulled her towards him in the dark. He stopped as she stumbled, and waited to listen. When no further noise succeeded, Mr. Todd continued to lead the baker ever closer to the stairwell that loomed so much farther than he remembered. It was only a dark splotch in the center of his vision, barely visible against its surroundings. Everything about him took on a surreal state of blurring into one another, and he still continued towards the biggest blot of ink with each foot dragged forward.

At the top of the stairs leading downward, the stench of coppery death and charred filth filled his nostrils with an unpleasant stinging, and he resisted the poignant urge to cough into his throat. Remarkably, it seemed not to affect Mrs. Lovett in the slightest, and left him to ponder what she truly did for him each day. It was a gruesome imagining even for him, because he had never thought of his customers as anything but faceless meat and revenge, blood and flesh. Now, it seemed that they had been grinding up and cooking entire lifetimes, and suddenly the walls were coated with a nameless, despicable contamination that left a stain on his conscience. This was murder.

Perhaps some of it was deserved, but none was so deserving as he for such a death. And yet he would not have it. Responsible as he was, he was bent on living now that he saw there to be a slight chance of doing so without the misery the past had brought him.

The subtle tap of shoes to the floor gave him an indication of how much time they had, and so he brought Eleanor down with him into the foul gloom at a faster pace, trusting the steps underneath to be where he set down his feet. She came at his side, obscured by the murky shade, and he knew her to be there only by her hand in his, and her somber breathing.

It was more foul to him once they had reached the bake house floor, as if the air hanging about him had suddenly taken on a solid consistency and he could hardly breathe. Breathing through his mouth now to rid the smell from his nose, he continued straight on into the dark with the creeping suspicion that he was going to trip and fall on his face before long. If not, then Mrs. Lovett would be so kind as to do that before him and take him down with her. Either way, he knew that sight was useless in this kind of dark, and it was almost eerie with the slow drone of voices behind them debating whether or not to go down. A lingering chill drilled itself past his skin and into his bones from the weighted air around them, and though they tried to be silent he could hear their footsteps echoing like thunder claps around them.

"Stop," whispered the baker quickly, and he did. "There's a grate where you're standing, and I know if we got down and felt for it then we could find the lid and lift it up." She sounded breathless and panicked, much like he knew he should feel himself if given proper time to consider it. Working quickly, he knelt down on one knee and felt Eleanor do something similar as he searched for the lid she spoke of with his fingers on the grimy, cool stones. More than once, their hands met in their blind raking of the floor, but he didn't pause in his inspection until he'd found the means by which to pull up the lid, and his fingers locked around it at about the same time Nellie determined that she had "got it".

Muttering a reply under his breath, they lifted it together with as much stealth as they could muster, and his side touched the floor first with a quiet metal scrape. They set it down with uneasy caution next to the hole that sent him a mildly fresh breath of air compared to his thick surroundings, and there was a second's hesitation as each waited for the other to make a move. Squinting into the nothingness in front of him where he knew Mrs. Lovett would be, it was very strange to know she was there but not to see her. He could picture her softly shadowed face and dark, curved lips as she might have gazed back at him, her liquid black eyes boring into his through his imagination. It was very likely that she _was_ looking at him then, but it was almost impossible to tell.

"Mr. T…?" he heard her question, a little too loud for his liking. She sounded somehow calm from the tone of her voice, though he knew she couldn't be, and it picked at his curiosity enough to disregard the approaching voices for a few seconds longer.

"What?" he snapped dangerously. She hesitated at his irritable reply, and the pause led him to become impatient with the baker and her sudden need to question him. They were on the brink of either escape or capture, and he wished vehemently that she would simply ask her silly question later, when the seconds against them weren't so critical.

"The flowers…" it was all she said. Vaguely, it gave him a memory of the odd bouquet he'd given her, lying somewhere on the corner of the harmonium where she'd put it and left it. It would have surprised him that she'd remember it now, after it was certainly too late, if he hadn't already been expecting something of equal fatuousness. As it was, he simply scoffed at her pother and directed her to climb down through the hole. Through she seemed to want to argue, all she gave him was a quiet "alright" before feeling out for the rusted, old ladder and stepping down onto it.

The baker climbed much slower than he would have thought it would take, and the footsteps coming down into the bake house had him impatient. If the constables walked just a few yards forward, then they would be caught. Holding his breath, he started down after Eleanor before she had reached the bottom and willed them not to make any sort of noise that would attract the attention of the constables entering the room. There was no way to tell for sure how many there were, but Mr. Todd was sure he didn't want to find out. They talked loudly, discussing how dark it was and searching for match sticks as he reached out to drag the lid over and carefully lower it shut above his head. Whatever noise might have been made was masked by the sound of the officials' voices, and he cursed when he heard one mention searching the sewers.

Quickening pace, he grabbed Mrs. Lovett at the bottom to pull her in the direction away from the grate. She came a little too willingly, tripping on the uneven stones underfoot and careening into his side with a loud gasp. With much toil, she managed to remain on her feet, but the raucous uproar she'd caused with her sonorous shoes was enough to cause an unnerving silence above them. Growling at her to take them off, Sweeney proceeded to stride down the dimly lit passage to scout out their direction. There was a fork in the path ahead where it split left and then right in an angular method, and there was no possible way to ascertain the quickest course from simply staring at the scoured stones and listening to the trickles of the flowing waste.

When he returned, Nellie was closer than he had anticipated with bare stockings and her boots held by the laces at her side. She nearly knocked into him again, but he ushered her along just as she caught her footing to keep at a fast pace worthy of her complaint. Strangely for her, she gave none, but he equated this to the echoes around them of their own movements being a warning against direct speech, as well as her knowledge of the facet that it was entirely essential. The baker was unusually quiet as he led her down the left passage, and she said nothing even as they were forced to bend their necks due to the low rocks overhead.

Not long after, he heard a clatter behind them that indicated the presence of the constabulary a ways back, and also encountered yet another series of pathways leading off from one another in separate direction. Beside him, Mrs. Lovett let out an exasperated sigh when she managed to trudge through a puddle, but gave no complaint when she caught her arm to drag her on. Had he thought about it, his pace might have been too quick for hers, but he did not think of such a thing at the time. Instead, he concentrated on walking silently and quickly down the nearest passage.

Eleanor, on the other hand, felt more inclined to go left; he noticed this once she had started off in the opposite direction from his, tugging him back. Naturally, they both stopped to look at one another: his an accusing look, and hers surprised. She tried to communicate something to him without words, but he cut her off by bringing his hand to her throat and closing it. The gesture wasn't meant so much as to murder as it was to threaten her and force her into agreeing with him on what way they should take, but he soon found it to be quite the bad idea.

He jolted her closer by his grip on her throat, trying to shove her in the direction of the passage and make her go ahead of him, but the action unbalanced her. She might have caught herself had he not still been latched onto her neck, choking her if she would lean just a bit more forward and failing to help her as she fell back. Seeing his mistake, he moved faster than he could think in lunging after her, preventing her from landing in the waste behind and therefore preventing a great stink as well as a loud splash. What resulted was his holding her very close, moving away from the wide flow to stand against the wall.

The baker exhaled into his shoulder, sounding astounded, and he let her cling to him as he listened to the dripping quiet. A distant tapping was getting closer, and he tried to discern how far away it was from their location. Not even the whole police could search the entire London underground; it was impossible. There had to be a route they wouldn't take, and that route would be their escape. All he had to do was keep choosing paths until their numbers were low enough from splitting apart at each intersection. Until that time, however, they were not safe, as they were not safe then.

Nellie's heartbeat was in the same pattern as the tapping beyond, reverberating through him from the pulse of her neck, and it proved to be a good distraction. Feeling a similar prickle of heat as what he'd felt before, but recognizing it for what it was, he tried very hard to suppress it. Now was certainly not the time to be kissing his accomplice, much less even thinking on it. They would be lost and spotted in an instant, or what it may seem like, if the roaring in his ears and the pounding on his temple were anything to judge by on his sense of control. It had taken on a different meaning from when he'd last had to encounter it; then, control had been the diligence to _wait_ until the exact moment he knew was opportune for slicing through the arteries of his customers: wait, like Mrs. Lovett had said. Now, it was a completely different idea. Control was a foreign concept in this matter, entailing the reigning in of his temperament as he'd never had to before.

Murder was calmly waiting for the right moment to unleash his beast, like opening a door. It was easy. Now, it was like trying to keep shut that same door with such a driving force behind it such as to knock him flat if he had opened it. It was unpredictable and straining.

With her pulse racing against his palm, Eleanor shifted away from him, and he removed his hand from her throat. She breathed her thanks, and met his gaze with an even stare, filled to the brim with the very emotion he failed to comprehend. It was something close to wonderment, but it was much more. Though he didn't take the time to figure it out, he knew that it wasn't quite the heat that he felt, but something less apprehensible. There was no temptation or strain behind her gaze: only that awed, gawking light that shimmered at him in its foul mockery of his inability to appreciate it.

He knew that it would cost him a great deal to give in to the imploring requests of his sizzling sense of inward burning, but there was nothing for it. The request became a demand, and the demand was too much. The door he held tightly shut groaned under the great pressure, and he grit his teeth until it burst open completely, leaving what was behind to flood out through him and direct him forward. Without an ounce of hesitance, he complied, and caught the baker in her shock with a crushing urgency. She did not disagree, and in fact followed his movements if not when even more fervor than he. In her excitement, she didn't have a very developed sense of survival. She allowed for all and might have allowed him much more, had he not remembered the very prominent fact that they were in a sewer with the law on their heels.

Swallowing his incineration and tearing his lips from hers, Sweeney held her in her place for the moment, listening to how fast their destruction progressed towards them. It was not very far away now, he could hear, and the tapping had become a slamming. Even Eleanor, through her helpless daze, seemed to notice it, and she sent him a glance that he answered by pulling her down the path he'd chosen earlier. This time, she did not argue his decision.

This time, they ran, and the barber could feel the heels of Mrs. Lovett's boots colliding with his thigh as they swung from their position hanging from her hand. His own shoes made a dull smacking sound on the wet rocks underfoot, and it was exceedingly difficult to compare their distance to the constables' through the noise. Grinding his teeth together in an effort to run faster, he suddenly found Eleanor outdistancing himself by a good few yards. Blinking after her, he focused his direction on her back in front of him and irritably wondered how she had become so much faster than he. She was like a right proper animal the way she flew ahead of him, and he put his question to her once he'd finally gained enough ground to be heard.

"How are you so bloody fast, pet?" he implored, trying to keep his breath from escaping him. She made no point to hide the fact that she was gasping for the air herself, but she looked over her shoulder at him in a way that didn't settle well in his mind. The smirk on her face was much too satisfactory, and he'd rather her not look at him like she had. In fact, he'd rather her be the one behind him.

"I had some practice on them cats a few years back," she replied breathlessly. "Quite fast, they are; nigh impossible to catch…don't see how – how Mrs. Mooney does it. Guess it doesn't matter so much at present, though, eh?" She gave him a sad smile with a sidelong glance, attempting to keep her hair in its place as it started to topple down from atop her head, and his only reply was to supply her with a curt nod. There was no approach he could think of that would make Nellie – a woman, no less – faster than _him_, and so the gain was temporary in his mind. He could easily overtake her, he knew.

Sucking in a large portion of air, Sweeney willed himself to move faster. Soon enough, the air started to chill his throat, his lungs aching for a full breath, but he refused to give in until he knew for sure that they were safely escaped, and that he was able to run quicker than the disgraceful baker ahead. She was certainly quick in her way, and she looked back to him as he challenged that.

"Mr. T…you don't happen to be thinking that you can run the faster, do you?" He made no answer as he concentrated on coming upon her side, and she almost laughed at him as his efforts proved vain. She remained the same distance apart as if some unknown force had been stuck in between them, and by then he felt his head throbbing on each impact with the solid ground. "It's a race, then?" She flashed him a wicked grin, a new sort of confidence creeping into her voice as he tried without success to beat her in this game.

The answer he gave her was not verbal; in lieu of speaking lest he be heard by anyone other than Mrs. Lovett, he flung himself forward to run equal at her side. The grin lingered upon her face as they charged on through the dark sewer, and he became increasingly aware of the plodding steps behind them, even louder than theirs. There was no possibility that they hadn't been heard: that disappeared with the running footsteps that gave chase to their competition. So far, it was Eleanor who was in the lead, and somehow he knew that he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't defeat her in this challenge. She wasn't one to keep her bragging to herself in these matters, and he wasn't one to let her win.

More prominently, there might not be any bragging to be heard of if they didn't each run as fast as the devil himself might have – had the devil any reason to be running from the police.

It was harder to tell in the gloam of the dim passage, but a substantial hole seemed to be visible on the far right of the wall, corroded away by the grime and the rats. Why anything with half a mind would live down here at all, he didn't care to venture a guess. Aiming his course for the hole that looked like a suitable cover from searching eyes, Nellie picked up on his intent and changed her direction as well.

Even as they angled closer to the carved out portion of wall, time was slipping away at the approach of the constables. It was a matter of seconds, each seemingly worth a whole lot more as the officials neared enough now to shout. Their voices rang out clear in the space around them, jolting the barber's mind into a state of absolute obligation. They _had_ to reach the crevasse between wall stones, without any option in the matter. The constables were too close, and there were two more than Mrs. Lovett and himself combined.

Just as an added danger, they had pistols. He was led to this revelation by the cracking bang that resounded around them, and he nearly lost his footing at the disruption of the stones near his left foot. Regaining a consistent motion, he had set aside all thoughts of this being a competition.

From somewhere in the intensity and darkness beside him, the baker's fierce hand came to grip his own, and she pulled him faster along with her as several more shots arrested his ears. He followed her willingly, hearing the explosion of the powder and the ricochet of several more rounds as he started to wonder if he was breathing at all. Oxygen no longer entered his lungs, and his working muscles protested to the chase, but he did not cease to run. With everything he could have possessed, he pushed his legs to follow the same fast pace and felt the sack on his shoulder beat into his back at every sprint.

The were only yards away from the eroded chasm when everything halted, and he felt an incredible, fiery lashing bite up his leg to his calf where it impeded him. Without so much as a grunt, for he had no breath for it, he felt the obligation shatter and collapse as he collapsed, too. Still attached to Eleanor with his fingers lodged through her own, he dragged her back as he fell, and she gasped for him when he could not. She went to her knees as he hit the floor bitterly on his left shoulder, and the echoes of the shouts behind them made clear the approach of the officials through the blurry portion of his thoughts.

He might have told the woman to get up and run had he believed that she would follow such advice, but as it was he said nothing. In their current position, they would be found without much quandary at all between their pursuers, and he resented that. With what little presence of mind he had, Sweeney edged his hand closer to his hip, and realized two things. The first being that his razor was gone, he could vaguely recall throwing it away for an earlier escape, and the second revealed that even if he'd had the blade, he might not have been able to stand with it. As frustrating as that seemed to be, the coarse pain that tugged at his attention made it less so. In fact, it was very likely ebbing away his very conscience, and so he concentrated harder on maintaining a way out of their current situation.

"Mr. T," Nellie said, very much out of breath. Her voice was choked and halting when she continued, shifting something in his determined haze that made his chest constrict. "Don't tell me it's…"

"My leg," he injected. "They shot my left leg." Gritting his teeth at the radiation of a surging, twisted pain, he managed to keep his voice from showing this struggle. "Get on your feet and get behind the opening."

Despite the command, she shook her head. She did stand up, and made like she was going to actually do as instructed, but came back a moment later with a good sized chunk of rubble in hand. Looking at her, he was able to discern that her knuckles were very white around the jagged block of stone that had come out of the wall, and there was a thin layer of water glittering behind her flint-colored gaze as she stooped to him. On her knees with the piece of wall held firmly at her side, she stooped lower to press cold lips to his cheek, and he found no warmth in this gesture to be even slightly annoyed for – only sadness.

It was becoming harder to focus on a single thing as the pounding in his temple became considerably worse, and he could hardly process the words that Mrs. Lovett spoke to him next. "I won't be watching you get yourself killed and be standing around idle, love. We've come far too close for that, now. It's not every day a woman finds someone she'd rather drive herself mad over than let alone, Mr. T, and whether or not you'd be so kind as to acknowledge that doesn't matter at present. What I should say, rather, is that I'd sooner let them coppers kill me than watch them kill you." The sincerity rang clear in his mind, and he might have been impressed at her admittance under any other circumstance. In the event, he barely had the time to think before the officials arrived in a clamor somewhere behind him, and Eleanor stood up with a heavy aim.

She struck before they could gather the resolve to shoot, and her aim proved to be worse than he'd imagined when he heard the stone crash against the ground, harmless. Whatever she had planned to do with a rock against four constables he had no idea, but at most the throw had caught the man off-guard. There was a pause where a couple of them started, flinching around in response to the noise, and the baker looked around for something else. He could have sighed at her sudden incompetence had he been in a better position, given she had a pair of capable boots hanging from her fist. By the time she realized this, too, she was already the target of four different pistols.

As soon as they had been noticed, the shoes dropped to the ground with a louder clunk than normal, and Sweeney saw the baker flinch at the noise. She might have been so unthinking as to take a couple of steps backward, but thankfully she was more sensible than that. Remaining stone-still under the locked and loaded aim, Eleanor glanced to him, and he did see a marginally normal amount of fright hooding her gaze, but it was not nearly as much as he would have expected. Noting this led him to yet another trait concerning the baker that he'd not taken the time to notice, before; Mrs. Lovett was actually quite brave. After all, she had faced him unflinchingly every time he'd threatened her neck with his glittering blade, and she'd risked a hanging for chopping up a good many corpses of his killing. Not once had she complained, not even of that God-awful stink, and he had to admit that he admired her daring gallantry.

Once again, he was reminded of an imploring interest to dismantle her, and to examine the aspects of her character in a more lightened detail. He knew as he watched her lift her chin to the constables and swallow, however, that later would be a more appropriate time. As of now, they were frozen in place – him a little more solidly than her – under the threat of the pistols pointing in the direction of Nellie's heart. He felt that if he only reached out to grab the boots she had so carelessly dropped, he might have had enough time to clock one of the officials squarely in the jaw, but reality spoke otherwise. In the time he could reach for the laces of her shoes, there was plenty of time for him to be shot at.

A few more moments of deliberation gave him the presence of mind to make a clear decision; it didn't matter what happened to him. It was probably the strangest thing he'd reasoned in a while, in context of saving the baker, but it was true nonetheless. With as many people as he'd murdered in his blind vengeance, he truly did deserve to die. Mrs. Lovett, however, had only been dragged into the crime through her odd sense of devotion, and she hadn't actually done any of the killings. She might have been his source of redemption if it wasn't already too late, but he would have to make do with what he had, and that was exchanging his life for hers. Given the situation, there wasn't much else for him to do unless he wanted the both of them to die.

His hand had only time enough to merely twitch towards the pair of boots before a series of events left him squinting defensively into the darkness ahead. Firstly, before he could even glance upwards, there was a large commotion composed of mostly grunts and shouts, followed by a shriek that he was almost positive was _not_ Eleanor. When he did dare to look, a single shot rang unambiguous in his rushing thoughts, halting his sweeping concentration and focusing it onto the direction of the rancor. Whatever had happened was clearly over, and he could distinguish several dark shadows on the floor marking the place of unmoving bodies. The barber peered closer at these bodies, unnerved by the silence with only one predicament; where these the bodies those of the police, or those of who could only be Nellie, Tobi, Anthony, and Johanna?

Somewhere in his thoughts, he managed to recall that Ragg had been lost to them between the shop and then, and so a wave of tension was released from his aching head in response to the realization that there were four corpses, and all were of relatively the same stature. In the least, he wouldn't be crawling his way out of the sewer with a bleeding calf or eating rats to fight starvation.

"Mr. Todd…?" It was Anthony. Lifting his head to see properly past the floor, the barber saw all of whom he had expected coming out of the shadow before him, Johanna with a hand over her mouth and Anthony with a pistol in hand. A little behind them, Mrs. Lovett stood looking dumbstruck, and he soon found out why. At her side, a rock dropped absently from the hand of Tobias Ragg, and he grinned largely up at the baker who looked as if she were torn between actions and about to cry. He saw her wipe away the moisture beading at the brims of her eyes, and as she launched herself forward to embrace the boy, exchanging a series of whispered words that the didn't catch.

"You've been shot," said Johanna quietly, stepping towards him past Anthony. The sailor looked as stunned as everyone else, and he came forward with the girl to offer a hesitant hand. Sweeney looked up at him in deliberation, assessing whether or not he could stand at all, but after a time he simply took the hand and was pulled up. His head was beginning to hurt worse than before, and he saw his vision fade for a moment under a deluge of piercingly bright spots as his arm was secured about Anthony's shoulders.

"I'm fine," he told them gruffly, but there was not a person in the room who didn't know that it was a lie. He hardly heard whatever reply was given, and allowed his head to fall halfway against the boy's shoulder as they moved closer to a way outside. It wasn't the most favorable position, but he was much more content to set an image of weakness now than to lie bleeding on the ground of the sewer watching Eleanor get herself killed. Somewhere close at hand, Nellie walked nearest to him except Anthony, and through his muddled staring at the floor he felt her fingers lightly twist into his at the tips. It was a connection that could be easily broken with the slightest of movements, but he made sure that, for her sake, it was not severed.

It seemed to him a long walk to reach an end to the unprepossessing maze, and there was little effort to speak from the people around him. For the most part, he tried not to walk on his left leg at all unless necessary, putting almost all of his weight onto the sailor at his side. There were times he'd close his eyes against the redundant aching, only to open them a few seconds later and find that they were in a completely different area, and that perhaps a few seconds were really a few hours. He might have found it irritating to be carried in this way if he'd had a mind for such thoughts, but more often than not his thoughts were nonexistent and dim under a veil of blankness.

"I can't swim," he heard his daughter admit, opening his eyes to find himself sitting against a wall near where they overlooked the waste flowing out through a grate into the sea. The grate had been removed, and he saw Johanna hesitating as she looked down at the channel that stretched out before her. Nellie stood closer to his side, and she sighed in what might have been agreement. She looked tired, as did the others, and this gave him a faint indication that it was either the middle of the night or early morning.

"Neither can I," shrugged the baker. "Things like that aren't high on a woman's list of things to learn, dear, not to mention this is probably the first time poor Johanna has even seen the sea. What of Mr. T, then? It's not very likely we should find the materials to build a boat lying about here." At this, Anthony looked around as if just realizing that Sweeney was there at all, and he looked caught on saying something that refused to come out. Looking back to Johanna, he shared a glance with her before sighing in his own turn and professing that he didn't know.

"I can swim," Sweeney asserted, acquiring four different surprised looks all in the same moment. He looked at each of them, seeing many different things in their expressions, but the most perceptible was skepticism. They believed, sensibly, that he could not move for himself with a bullet in the back of his leg. In an effort to prove them wrong, Mr. Todd proceeded to stiffly get up, standing on both of his feet away from the wall, and clenched his jaw in defiance against the flash of pain. Walking smoothly towards Mrs. Lovett, he voiced his idea in an order: "We're going to swim carrying them with us."


	11. The Unexpected and the Undetected

What can I say? Midterms. Not the most pleasurable thing in the world, but necessary. Anyway, this chapter is a little more on the positive side, considering this is Sweeney Todd we're talking about. I'm trying for a transition, and I get the feeling its going to be what we call an "epic fail." Hope you guys enjoy it! Cheers!

* * *

Grabbing onto his collar, she could almost feel the barber wince as the water leaked into his wound. His face was a mixture of pain and anticipation as he balanced her on his back, and Nellie could only hope that he wasn't suffering all that much. Of course, she might as well have taken a rock and thrown it in the hope that it would reach the moon for how likely it was that Sweeney wouldn't suffer with a bullet in his leg.

Close by, Anthony struggled to position Johanna in such a way as Mr. Todd had herself, and she watched as they finally managed to assemble themselves in a similar manner. She looked across at the pair and wondered if she looked any bit as ridiculous as they, holding onto the sack encasing all they had chosen to take as Johanna held onto theirs. It was very strange to be staring up at the winking stars as the water moved past her, sometimes trickling uncomfortably into her ears, as she was pressed so close to the barber who swam flawlessly beneath her. She wondered if Johanna thought the same.

Then again, Johanna had known her sailor for a grand total of a few months or so, whereas Nellie had known her barber for a good portion of her life. Love was a lovely thing, but she doubted the girl felt anything with the same depth as she. Within a few years, on the contrary, she had no doubt that Anthony and Johanna would be nigh inseparable. Time was a very judgmental object.

The Boundless was actually larger than she had expected from Anthony's earlier description, and she had to appreciate its size and beauty as they were pulled on deck. Though she'd never set foot on a ship in all her life, and the awkward swaying beneath her feet was unnerving, she looked back at the man leaning heavily against the side of the ship behind her and felt that she could survive anything – even leaving the city she'd lived her whole life in. A faint layer of fog ensconced the city that had rejected them and spat them out, and Mrs. Lovett joined Sweeney at the rail to look out at the home she may never see again, knowing that her "home" belonged not in London, but in wherever Sweeney was.

She switched her gaze to the barber, then, and he gave her a tired glance when he noticed that she was looking. Somewhere behind them, Anthony was engaged in a conversation with someone concerning directions, and Johanna was sure to be nearby. Draping an arm about Mr. Todd's back, she rubbed a few circles in between his shoulder blades in the hope that he'd actually acknowledge her, but he did very little aside from flinging the wet hair that clung to his face out of his eyes.

"Well," she said, tucking a frazzled strand of wet and frantically curling hair behind an ear, "I suppose that's it, then. We leave London and sail topsy-turvy to France, where we make the rest of our lives. …You don't suppose you'll miss it, do you, Mr. Todd?" He didn't seem very interested in the question while she asked it, but she saw and felt his shoulders hunch under her fingertips only moments after. Perhaps it was not the most plausible notion that Sweeney would miss the city that he'd cursed numerous times over, but it was at least something to break the silence.

"Miss it…?" the barber repeated back to her, twisting around to catch her in a doubting glance with raised eyebrows and a scowl. "My dear Eleanor, whatever goes on in that uncanny head of yours? Miss the forsaken city that damned me to hell and killed my wife, where beggars screech for not even a penny and resort to selling themselves to survive, where I murdered the undeserving souls of men who would likely have died in the streets? I daresay I think not!" His eyes flashed at her in his raving speech, portraying to her a seething sort of lunacy in his spiteful intensity, and he bared his teeth like an animal as he looked past her.

These were the signs that she had gone too far, that she had said too much, and it was usually the point at which his responsibility for his actions peeled away completely to show her the bent spirits of the beast Australia had festered. Unlike her expectations, though, the maddened ire subsided into a coherent anger that became visible as his eyes flashed again to squint down at the swells behind her, and he parted his lips as if to speak.

"That's all very good in its way, love, but it can't be all so terrible," she proposed, more likely than not digging her own grave with her prodding. "There ought to be some things that aren't so bad, hmm? London is where you met your Lucy, after all, and it's where you married her, too. Miss Johanna was born there, too, and it's where you had your first job – where you learned barbery, even. How about that? If I recall correctly, you even said to me once that London was very beautiful, and that it had some of the kindest people…do you remember, Mr. T?"

Absently, he nodded at her, his eyes still set on surveying the spot just above her shoulder. She fancied that maybe, he'd heard at least half of what she'd said, but it was hard to tell. In his usual manner, he didn't acknowledge her, and Nellie was inclined to give up on his ears of stone to be in more willing company. She thought about it and even made as if to walk to where Anthony stood with Johanna, but in the end she couldn't bring herself to do it.

"It's where the judge and the Beadle both met their ends," he replied, still looking past her. After a pause, his eyes travelled up to favor hers. "…and where I met you." The tone of his voice as he said it left much to be desired, but coming from him it was a blush-worthy mention. He didn't seem to notice as she felt the forgotten heat blossom in her cheeks, reminding her of days spent nearly sixteen years ago, but she thought she saw him smirk a little out towards the river as she tried to hide her ridiculous blush. Angling to face her, though not quite looking at her, he continued. "I remember that outrageous competition you had with Mrs. Mooney the day after she opened shop."

The memory brought a smile to her face, knowing Mr. Todd would even still think about things like that, when he was such a different person now. Before all of this mess, he might have looked at a man like what he'd turned into and shake his head, saying how rotten some people where just because they'd been wronged once. Now, he'd look at a man like he used to be and shake his head, saying how rotten some people were just because they'd not been wronged yet. Sighing, she watched her breath float away from her and wondered at the difference.

"You mean that horrible day where I had you and I both running about in that madhouse, and when I ran out of meat we ended up using –"

"-dead rats," he finished for her, scoffing at the deck, "from down in the sewer. I told you that you should have skinned them, first."

His eyes darted across to her when she tried to muffle the laugh that bubbled up from her throat, and she felt her heart beat for escape from the confinement of her chest as he studied her in that glance. It wasn't often that he truly looked at her anymore, and on the rare occasion that he did, it never failed to excite her as if it was something much more spectacular. Just then, the look he'd given her seemed so much more than what he usually gave her, which was something close to tolerance. It wasn't quite fondness, either, but whatever middle-ground there was gave her enough satisfaction knowing he didn't want her dead.

"I must say it was by far more comical to watch their faces when they tasted the fur, though, love. It may have lost me a week's worth of customers, but it was well worth it for such a laugh." He gave her a small nod in the way of encouragement, and she felt that she could soar at the fact that he was really listening to her. Perhaps he always at intervals that seemed appropriate, but it was too far-fetched to believe he could actually ignore her if he made such an effort. At least, this was what she chose to think. "You remember Mr. Williams, don't you?" she asked.

Sweeney scowled down at the glittering ocean for awhile, and returned to her with a grimacing uncertainty. "He's the one who's always out with his dog – that brown spotted, white piece of filth."

"The very same," she answered proudly, and he shrugged a little in his enigmatic mien. She hadn't the faintest idea why she hadn't discussed these things with him much earlier – perhaps it would have brought him closer – but the memory of his face whenever she chanced to mention his old wife gave her enough not to think on it. "I remember the day his animal got loose and came here looking for the meat, when you found it, Mr. B, and-"

Abruptly, she stopped. The name that had suddenly slipped out unbidden from her lips was not likely something he would allow, and it led her to freeze completely, as if it weren't obvious enough. Nellie had a feeling that the mistake was going to cost her a great deal, and she tried very hard not to think of how angry the barber must have been as his blank stare morphed into a frown. He turned to her with a dull expression, the frown quickly replaced with a simple quirk of the lips, and his blank eyes traced over her fearful gaping with a familiar disgust.

"Say it again," he spat, daring her to speak it twice. She didn't understand why it would have made him so disagreeable, but neither did she have room to question the matter. She'd since learned that silly explanations only delayed what was already coming from the start, and the inevitability forced her into a very tight space. Though he had no weapon, there were many things he could still do, and his brash words were usually what pained her the most. The black stare he supplied her already felt as if he'd twisted one of his razors into her chest, and it wound tighter as he continued.

"I-I said 'when you found it, Mr. T' – when you found Mr. Williams' dog," she relayed dutifully, hoping he'd believe in her subtle revision. From his face, he didn't take to well to her change, and she wished vehemently that she might not have been so careless.

"That's not what you said," he hissed through his teeth, advancing on her with a wicked urgency. She stumbled a few steps backward from his intensity, but he caught her by the wrist to stop her and pull her back towards him. Once he had her there, he lowered his voice to barely a whisper and narrowed his eyes on her as he breathed his words into her face. "Now. You will hear me. Your Mr. B is dead. He's gone. I have a new name. A different name. What is my name, Eleanor?"

The threat in his voice was clear, and she knew he would not stand for it if she made her mistake a second time. Perhaps it was the memories that had driven her to call him that name, or perhaps it was his recent attitude towards her switching frequently enough for her to wonder about his true intentions. Whatever it was, the baker felt close to sick over what the consequence for her stupidity might be, because she simply couldn't see Sweeney being anything as oddly thoughtful as he'd been before she'd gone and called him "Mr. B." The thought of losing that strange and recent side of him that seemed so much like the former Benjamin was what spread the sickness to a throbbing in her head as he seethed at her, and what clenched in her throat as her vision wavered. She cursed at the hindrance, blinking hard to vanish it and hoping that Mr. Todd didn't see, but it stubbornly leaked down onto her cheeks. She didn't dare wipe it away for fear of making it even more obvious.

"Sweeney Todd," she choked out, trying very hard not to sound like how she felt. Swallowing the tightness in her throat, the baker stood to face him with a mock-bravery, staring evenly back into his endless glare. He bared his teeth at her in his feral rage for a few moments longer before his expression faded into a discontentment, and he backed away from her to lean stiffly back onto the side of the ship. The barber took no notice of her as she looked out at the sea, down at her feet, anywhere but him, and he remained stock-still in his place as she sighed and fidgeted with her skirt. When she'd pieced together her composure a little better, she shifted hesitantly closer to Mr. Todd as he continued to ignore her, and she traced his glowering back to the city disappearing behind the fog before them.

"Mr. T…?" she asked quietly. He didn't acknowledge her save for a small glance, and she took this as a sign to continue. "Why is it that you hate that name so much?"

It may have been pushing her limits to question him, and she only half expected him to answer, but simple curiosity won over the premonition that he'd do anything brash. In fact, he took so long in making his reply that she was thoroughly surprised when he actually voiced an answer.

"Benjamin Barker," he spat, "was a fool. He was weak, and he was naïve."

Biting at her lower lip, she turned on him to study his stony face, and wished she were able to wipe away the lines she saw there, representing the years that had pulled them apart and sent both of their separate lives into a chaos they'd only made worse. If he noticed her scrutiny, he did nothing for it. She stopped herself from touching him, however much she wanted to, in favor of keeping Mr. Todd in this communicable state, and ran a hand through the back of her frazzled hair instead.

"He may have been," Mrs. Lovett reasoned, "but so was I. At that age, we had a right to be. You used to care, you know – about everything. It may as well have been better that way, what with the way it's turned out. I mean, we were happy, love…and now, there's not so much to be happy for at all, is there?"

Taking a breath that he seemed not to have taken in awhile in order to speak, Sweeney looked to her as well, and his words died on his lips. In another moment, he had them again, but he kept his eyes on her when he spoke them. "It's the way we were that's caused us to be the way we are." His tone was direct and resentful, but she couldn't help but think it seemed somehow softer.

"Well," she exhaled. His focus on her was mildly distracting, but she was glad for it. "I suppose you're right, then. It isn't always us, though, love…that bloody old judge was really the only reason you were ever taken away from the life you were happy with. I'm sure you would have learned things in time – we all do."

He appeared to grow tired of the conversation when he merely grunted, and she couldn't tell whether he agreed with her or not. More likely, he just wanted her to leave, but it was a difficult prospect to determine while he was staring at her in such a way. Just when it started to become uncomfortable, he looked away, back out towards London. In watching him, she didn't notice whatever went on behind her, but it seemed that the barber was not deaf to what went on around him. Turning to her on the spur of the moment, he paused to glance around the deck before landing his eyes back on her anticipating expression, and he opened his mouth in a question that thoroughly astonished her.

"Where's the boy?"

At once, he knew she meant Tobi, and as she scanned the deck she realized that he may have had a point. The apprentice was nowhere in sight, and she felt a slight twist in her stomach when she scanned and re-scanned, but still didn't find him. Of course, there was no reason in fretting over it until she knew for certain, and so she made a point to head towards the sailor she recognized as the one Anthony had been arguing with earlier. He looked only slightly older if not the same age as Johanna's rescuer, and he looked up at the sky in thought when asked of Tobi's whereabouts. For a moment longer he scratched his nose and thought, until at last he looked back to her and said that he could have sworn he'd seen a boy of Tobi's description following after "the blonde girl."

Exchanging a glance with Mr. Todd, she was able to get out of the sailor that they had gone below deck, and so she led the way on their own decent to find Tobi. She hadn't the faintest idea why Sweeney was trudging along after her, but she supposed that it was the unfamiliar territory that made another source of reason more appreciated. When they found the boy, he was with Johanna just as the sailor had promised, and there was also Anthony. The former showed them to their adjacent cots that they would be using for the next month or so, and Mrs. Lovett inwardly sighed at the idea of being trapped on this boat for more than a few days. As far as ships went, she supposed that it was sturdy, but the prospect of boredom was what haunted her.

Sooner than she would have thought, however, she did find things to do. These involved asking more questions than she deserved answers to of the crew, playing cards with anyone who dared to take up her challenge, and finding new and amusing ways of irritating the barber without enraging him. Most of the time, to his utter frustration, she won at cards, and this above all else seemed to irk him to the point of throwing a fit. She didn't have the heart to tease him about it outside of the game, because she knew that, for all of his threats and emotionless reactions, it truly upset him to know that she would always beat him at every card game. To annoy him, she developed a wonderful routine of pointing out every bird or fish she happened to see, and also of coddling the relationship between his daughter and Anthony. Nellie could tell that he wasn't too keen on the whole idea, and so she loved it all the more.

All things considered, it made for an interesting time. It wasn't that she found pleasure in annoying him so much as she enjoyed the attention he gave her afterwards, and it was more of a challenge to her to evade the things he thought up for retaliation. In this way, she was able to maintain entertainment enough to keep from going mad, and she was able to fly through the many days spent on the Boundless.

As they drifted closer to France on a lazy wind, a grey dusting became visible on the horizon, and it loomed closer it seemed with each hour. Sweeney was set on believing that it was a storm, but she assured him that it was just the clouds being darkened by the land beneath them, signaling that they were very close indeed to reaching their destination. By no means did he believe this explanation, but Eleanor thought that it was much better to be optimistic about things than to worry over them before they happened. She may have very well been a very large hypocrite to think it, but it only came of living by herself for so long. She had to have something to look forward to when there was nothing, and so she might as well make up her own reasons.

Simultaneously groaning and slamming down the cards in his hand, Sweeney swore at her and leaned sourly back against the wall. He glared at her as she shuffled them back into a deck, and she grinned back to him. When she told him that he was only a sore loser, he replied quite insensibly that she was cheating, and lay back onto his cot in order to glower at the ceiling. Reaching out a hand to pat his shoulder as she denied any such thing and reassured him that they could always play again, he turned on his side with his back facing her. In doing this, he didn't notice it when she rolled her eyes at him, muttering "heavens…" under her breath as she attempted to get up and sway his mood.

Before she could ask him whether or not he wanted to have another go, there was a loud shriek from Johanna, who had formerly been sewing quietly on the opposite end of the room. Her scream made both the barber and the baker start to attention, and they each moved towards her and she backed towards the corner on her tip-toes. When Mrs. Lovett inquired as to the matter, she only shook her head and pointed, wide-eyed, to a spot somewhere on the floor between them.

At first, it didn't seem that the girl was pointing at anything except for the worn floorboards. It took a large sweeping of the space between them before Mrs. Lovett focused down on a small, moving object, and a few blinks before she realized what it was. Shuffling slightly away from the creature in mild disgust, she transferred her gaze to Johanna, who was still standing horrified in the corner.

"That's the largest bleedin' rat I've seen in quite awhile," announced the baker. "You don't suppose he's gotten fat off of the food we ourselves are supposed to be eating?"

Her question went unanswered as Johanna merely wrinkled her nose and Mr. Todd looked calculatingly down at the pilfering beast. For the longest time, neither made a move, and Eleanor was quickly becoming impatient. The longer they waited, the closer the little bugger was to escape. She knew that daring glint in her Mr. T's gaze – he meant to kill. The only problem she had with this was that if he was meaning to kill it, then he'd do well to get on with it.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she exclaimed, making the barber and his daughter jump for a second time. The rat appeared unfazed by her sudden outburst, and it ignored her as she stomped over to her cot, grabbed a blanket, and threw it over the animal. Before it could get out of her trap, she flung herself at it as well and held it down, gathering the struggling beast into a twitching knot in her fist. Once it was secured in her hand, she disregarded the two stares she received to quickly dash the writhing knot against the nearest wall. When it was still, she turned round to hold the harmless animal at her side and shrug at the two gazes hovering over her.

A rat meant nothing to her anymore, having dealt with them and other pestiferous things for a good portion of her life. It was something that came natural to the business of baking, where food attracted all sorts of things from perfidious men to cockroaches. After she'd quietly dumped the corpse into the sea and sold off the soiled blanket to one of the sailors on deck, she came back to the barber and his daughter quite satisfied and fanning her newfound profit in the air.

Basking under Sweeney's baffled look at the money she flaunted, she packed it away with the rest of her savings and chuckled to herself at the raised-eyebrows look that Johanna was giving her. Sweeney beat his daughter to the question, however, and came to stand over Mrs. Lovett in a demanding kind of presence.

"I daresay, Eleanor, that if I let you alone with a pile of_ dung_ that you'd have a fair profit off it before the day was out." He eyed her sum distastefully and folded his arms as he looked down at her. "Should I ask how it is that you came by _that_ with a rat in a blanket?"

She only shook her head, fighting a smile. "No, you should not," she answered, and stood up to face him. In doing so, she found herself closer than expected, and blinked into his face as he raised an eyebrow at her from his small distance. "Besides," Nellie proclaimed, "you're going to have to come up with something more worthless than dung if you want to give me a challenge." When his peculiar look increased, she broke into a laugh. "It's good for plants!"

His somber expression changed little as she leaned up on tip-toes to kiss his left cheek, and he didn't bother to move as she bent down to gather the cards she'd left on the floor and hold them up in a silent question. Something twitched at his lips as he nodded in defeat, and he snatched the deck form her with a rather forceful insist that he shuffle, lest she cheat again.

The next few days passed as usual – with Tobi sticking close to Mrs. Lovett and sometimes Johanna, Mrs. Lovett sticking close to Sweeney, and Johanna sticking close to Anthony. The dark splotch on the horizon drew ever closer, and true to Mr. Todd's prediction, the sea started to become even more tumultuous as they drew nearer. Nevertheless, this didn't keep Eleanor from being purposefully optimistic. She continued to object that the storm didn't exist, even if her hope was inwardly diminishing.

Sweeney's leg was slowly healing itself, leaving him with only a slight limp after they'd gotten the metal round out and had bandaged the wound with what little they could find. By the time they reached land, Mrs. Lovett declared, he'd be just fine and she promised him that all he'd have to show for it would be the scar. Not that he acted like he particularly cared, but she liked to think that her optimism was helping, even if it was only a little. For the most part, the barber ignored her – unless he was conjuring up his revenge for her purposeful annoyances and her winnings at cards.

The straw that pushed her over the edge would have been opening the door to a flood of water from a large barrel that had been leaned precariously against it. After that, it had been war. Not only had he flushed her with ice-cold water first thing in the morning, but he'd soaked one of her favorite dresses. There was a shortage of good dresses at the moment, and she didn't need him ruining one of the few she had. Perhaps he'd utilized the knowledge that she got up second only to him as his advantage, but there was still the possibility that he could have victimized Johanna. For that, she was ready to do more than point out fish and win at cards.

For her own act of vengeance, she made a special journey to the kitchen. It wasn't anything special and didn't have nearly the luxury of her shop in London, but she found what she was looking for. Carefully, Nellie took a knife and cut up one of the small, red peppers into minute, indivisible slices. When she tested the poison on her tongue and felt her eyes water, she knew she'd found exactly what she needed.

Taking a handful of the invisible slivers, she made sure to clean up after herself before and after she'd smeared the handful on the handle of every door applicable. That is, she didn't find many full-fledged doors on a ship, but she did so to every door handle the man was sure to touch. Mrs. Lovett also made sure to catch anyone who opened said doors and inform them not to rub their eyes any time soon, if she couldn't stop them from opening the door in the first place. Most just gave her strange looks and went on their way, but she knew they'd regret it if they didn't follow her advice.

The result she received for her trouble was a festering silence and very many glares in the time that he wasn't rubbing at his eyes. Eleanor allowed him to suffer perhaps a bit longer than necessary, but he had it coming. She didn't let it last for more than an hour, at any rate, and eventually got over her mirth enough to fetch him a cloth dipped in cold water. Before he could trifle with her over suspicions, she pushed him onto his back and hid the cloth over his eyes, scolding him by saying "Stop rubbing your eyes, you silly man, or you'll only make it worse!"

He obeyed her in reluctance, but she could tell that he wasn't about to disagree with her by the way he sighed in certain relief at the dissipation of what should have been pain. If Mrs. Lovett had allowed herself enough time to really think about it, she might not have done it for being loathe to causing him pain, but it was too late.

Stroking back his hair as she knelt next to him, she looked at her handiwork in approval. "I should think you'd be grateful," Nellie said to him. "What with the way you might have ruined my dress, I could've done a lot worse…but I didn't."

He didn't say anything, but allowed her to continue sitting at his side, brushing her fingers through his hair more times than necessary. If he was annoyed by this, he didn't show it, and so in a gradual fashion her hands found a way onto his shoulders and then his back when he sat up.

Neither took too much notice of Johanna when she stood to go look for Tobi and Anthony, but Mrs. Lovett knew what her true motive was. She was grateful for it, and winked at the child on her way out. The girl gave her a hint of a smile at this, but remained otherwise unresponsive so that when Sweeney glanced over his shoulder to find her grinning, he was sure to think it was him.

"In Australia, there was a man," he said, "who'd been accused of murdering his pregnant wife. He said he wasn't guilty, but there wasn't enough evidence to warrant a hanging. He came with a woman accused of being his accomplice, and he hated her. For six weeks, they could only think up ways to kill each other. And then he gave her a child. They say she died during the birth."

First and foremost, she couldn't believe he was talking to her – much less, talking of his past. When his words finally sunk in, she couldn't figure out why he was talking to her at all. He didn't seem to be making any sense with regards to getting out some important point, and Eleanor knew him as more of the type to simply come and say something if he had anything to say. Because of her initial wonder, she couldn't find anything to say until several beats too late.

"So he killed her, then?"

Sweeney shrugged under her fingertips and gave a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, displaying to her his indifference. Whatever source of some conversational burst of amicability was long gone, and he no longer proved to want to speak to her. It didn't look very likely that she'd find just what he'd meant by coming out with such a sudden piece of memory, but her curiosity burned at the tip of her tongue. In order to keep from pestering him, Nellie had to go to such lengths to restrain herself as biting into her lip, and her struggle was evident in her hands when she pressed them a little rougher than intended into Mr. Todd's back.

"I remembered him because of his dead wife," stated the barber. "His love for her reminded me of Lucy. It was hard to believe when I heard he was the father of the baby of the woman he hated so much. He killed himself – later that year."

He sighed and leaned back into her touch, leaving her in a right amount of confusion. When she asked what had happened to the baby, he merely shrugged once again. This kept her silent and in thought for the duration of the time until her wrists started to ache, and she'd still come up with no good reply by the time she lowered her hands and drew in a great breath. He let her lean forward to rest her chin on his shoulder, and when she glanced upwards she saw that his eyes were closed.

"So then, Mr. T…I don't suppose you know any French, do you?" He shook his head. "You don't say. Then I guess we'll have a right difficult time there if we don't learn quick, eh?" He nodded. "You know, I've heard it's a beautiful place. I mean, it will be a wonderful place for your daughter's wedding." He moved his head a fraction towards hers and opened his eyes.

"Wedding…?" The question in his repetition was unmistakable, and the look he gave her was almost comical. Mrs. Lovett couldn't blame him for his reaction, as she probably would have done something similar in his place, but his immediate inquiry to her casual mention was all too human. Whether he wished it or not, he was a father to Johanna in his behavior as well as his heritage. Eleanor might have been proud of him, had she not been so busy trying to keep her heartbeat at a steady pulse for the given circumstance.

"Of course, dear," she replied. "I mean, relatively speaking. Not anytime soon, no, but perhaps in a year or so. Really, it's only a matter of time. You've seen them, haven't you, Mr. T? They get along splendidly – like flies to horse droppings, they are. I don't think you could've asked for anything better." He gave another curt nod that gave the impression of only half listening, and she saw the movement of his throat when he swallowed. "And your daughter…she's every bit as pretty as her mother." Again, he nodded.

His head was turned towards hers over his shoulder, and his eyes were almost closed as he looked sideways at her. She might have taken the opportunity to kiss him, but instead she only dragged herself closer to set her arms about his shoulders and sigh noisily. It was difficult to tell whether this displeased him or not, because his face was entirely blank as he slid shut his eyes. Neither moved from this position for a great while, except for her to lean her cheek against his, and for him to relax enough to lean backwards against her.

Whatever it was, she knew she couldn't take it as intimacy. He looked to be thoroughly exhausted, and this was more than likely the only reason keeping him from moving as far away from her as possible.

Though her heart beat erratically and sent an itching delight throughout the rest of her body, she strained to keep the excitement to a minimum, knowing nothing could come of it. The barber was propped against her in all cryptic incomprehensibility, and she was not going to let her girlish emotions ruin a moment that was unlikely to recur. She even held her breath in the hopes that it would slow her racing pulse, but had to end up breathing through her nose when the ache for air became too strong. At last, she gave up and accepted the heady feeling that turned over her stomach, closing her eyes as well and breathing him in.

"Mr. T…?" she asked quietly.

His responding grunt of acknowledgement was so faint that Eleanor was left to smile at how helpless one of London's greatest murderers sounded. He shifted uncomfortably against her and inhaled a languid breath, his head resting heavily against her own. Opening her eyes to drink in his face devoid of all expression, she mused that it was probably the closest thing to tranquil in his ability.

"Do you ever think," Nellie said slowly, "that maybe things would have turned out differently, if just a few things hadn't happened in the way they had? If we hadn't ever met…? That it would be better…?"

He breathed in a slow, exasperated breath without opening his eyes, and answered her in a weary voice. "No, I don't. What's done is done."

It took her a few moments to let it sink in, and his words somehow gave her a sense of solace. He was as blunt as ever, but perhaps he didn't dislike her after all. It could have been a far stretch, but it was more believable when she was sitting with her chin on his shoulder and her arms about him. The barber let her do these things, and he had listened and responded to her idle talk. At least, it was comfort enough for her wandering mind.

Eleanor had not the time to even think on what he was doing as he reached up to grip her arms, and so she didn't take into account how tight his grip actually was, or how his lips were pulled back into a knowing smirk. In fact, she didn't think on any of it until it was far too late, and by then he had already secured her onto his back as he shot to his feet and spun her around in a dizzying circle. The unexpected movement had her stomach plummeting into her boots and her eyes shut at the world spinning around her, but the thrill in her surprise had her grinning into Sweeney's shoulder.

"Stop!" she laughed into him, and her voice was muffled by his clothing. "Stop it, Mr. T!"

Unsurprisingly, he didn't listen to her. On the contrary, he only spun her faster, and the result was for her to laugh even harder and shut her eyes even tighter. She couldn't tell whether he was doing it to scare her in retaliation for her latest trick, or acting on a whim. Either way, she clung to him with an iron grasp in fear of flying off, and he held onto her in much the same way. With the motion whirling in her head, she could only wait until he slowed to a stop.

Before her laughter had died and he'd stopped completely, a sensation moved the world around her that was not the man beneath her. At first, she was too disoriented to notice it or where it came from, but then the barber stumbled uncharacteristically at the unbalanced sway and she felt herself slipping. He swore as the quaking launched him into a wall, and Nellie hugged his neck as they tumbled to the floor.

Sweeney cursed again when his head was plunged into the floorboards, and Eleanor felt him go still at her side as she tried to regain her breath. When she'd got up the state of mind to wonder what had happened, she leaned up over his shoulder to ask if he was alright, and he groaned in response. They lay in silence a few moments as the pounding in her head receded and Mr. Todd turned over on his side to face her, and the ship still rocked them violently all the while.

"It's raining," he pointed out, and it surprised her how his breath played out across her face as he said it. She realized then, as she looked up to meet his gaze, how close they truly were. Their eyes locked in that moment, and somewhere in the background she could hear the rain that proved Sweeney's statement true. It sounded like a good, heavy quality, and it came down in a fast wooden thrumming from the same grey clouds that Mrs. Lovett had denied.

Something told her she should be irritated with the barber for being right about the storm, but she just couldn't find the decidedness to do so when he was lying just across from her with his eyes boring into her own. There was nothing she could see in his flint-colored gaze that reflected his thoughts, and she wished adamantly to know what he was thinking when she was probably the closest she'd ever been to him. Somewhere in all of the tumult and the rotating of her mind his arm had found its way about her waist, and there was almost no space at all between any part of them. His eyes stayed trained on hers, and there was hardly any leaning forward to be done at all when her resolve snapped. She took a hesitant moment to hold her breath, poised with her lips lightly brushing over his as she gently dragged herself backwards to check his reaction.

He watched her through a half-lidded gaze as she assessed him, and gave nothing away as he continued to stare indolently across to her. His lips were parted against her own, and she felt his light breath as he held it back. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard the rumble of the skies in an angry protest, but nothing was as prominent to her in that instant than Sweeney's trailing back towards her to seal the kiss.

"Mr. Todd…!" They heard him down the hall. Before Eleanor even had the chance to really respond to the barber's pursuit, they were each forced to move apart and get to their feet. "Mr. To – ah…Mrs. Lovett…there you are." Anthony entered the room looking thoroughly drenched, followed by Tobi and Johanna looking slightly less wet. He took a breath to collect himself in the doorframe, and then stepped in to let the others through as he continued. "If you haven't already heard, sir, there's a storm in its wake, so I don't think it would be very wise for you to go up, ma'am. We…might be driven a little off-course, you see."

The sailor looked like he wanted to say more, but he was stopped by Mr. Todd, who looked ready to burst out of rage. He clenched his fists to glower down at the floor, and Eleanor found the cause in the slight discolorment smudged about Anthony's lips in the same form of lip shade on the girl now standing timidly at his side. In order not to laugh, Mrs. Lovett had to bite the inside of her own lip as she approached the sailor to inform him in a hushed tone of his predicament, and patted him on the shoulder as she retreated. He looked between her and Sweeney in awe, then to Johanna, and then to his feet in a modest chagrin. Quietly, he excused himself, and Johanna looked after him curiously before taking to her corner where she and Tobi quickly monopolized the deck of cards belonging usually to the barber and the baker.

Without that, Eleanor was swiftly bored, and she was left to lie on her back and try to fight off the nausea brought about by every roll of thunder or jolt of the ship. Nearby, the barber was dealing with much the same boredom as he flipped open and closed one of his six remaining razors, and she wondered if the incessant giggling form the corner of the room was giving him as much of a headache as it was her. He didn't look bothered by it, but she could see the tension in his slamming his blade shut every now and then.

However much he tried to be inconspicuous, Nellie caught the subtle looks that Tobi occasionally sent her whenever the thunder clapped unusually louder, and it warmed her heart to see his concern. She wished she could have told him that she was perfectly fine, but the truth was that she felt it more likely for her insides to come pouring out of her. For a whole two or three hours, Eleanor managed to hold it back, but by the end of it every minute noise was swelled in her head to throb its way into a suffocating sensation in her throat and a churning in her stomach.

Even the tiny slaps of Mr. Todd's razor when he shut it were starting to make her more sick, and so when the thunder reverberated through her bones for the billionth time, Mrs. Lovett felt that she'd had enough. She could only take so much, and just then the heated sickness in her veins threatened to spill over. This was when she decided that she needed some fresh air, rain or no, and forced a smile as she began to get up to say she'd be right back.

Tobi watched her as she crossed the room unsteadily, feeling a relapse of the dizziness of when the barber had spun her around, but he didn't say a word. Sweeney glanced to her as she walked past him, but he just went on snapping his razor open and shut. She had half a mind to kick the infernal tool out of his hands, but felt that such a move might force her nausea over the edge. So instead, the baker simply feigned perfect health as she dragged herself out of the room, and then leant against the outside wall to steady her balance once she had made it to the outer passage.

Between breaths, Nellie could barely hear Mr. Todd making some sort of question or comment on the matter, but she only heard clearly Tobi's reply of "Oh, she doesn't like thunderstorms, sir." She might have smiled if she could have, but she only continued on her hobbling trek down the hall to find fresh air. Within two more turns into two more passages, she was within sight of her exit, but the sickness was pulsating anew in her aching skill and twisting her insides into a knot. Halfway towards her way out, the baker felt that she had to stop or she would faint.

Sliding heavily down the side of the wall, she strained to breathe as her breath came short and hot, as if the air around her had already been used up and spat back out. Her head was roaring and splitting like an explosion, and her temples were swollen. The suffocation had her lungs tight in her chest, and she rolled her cheek against the wall as if that would help. Her heart was beating her stomach up through her throat, and she felt sure that the lights flashing in her vision would leave her blinded.

She waited until the suffocation had subsided a little before she dared to trust her feet, and even then the farthest she could make it was the closest door, which she crawled through to find a small closet. There, she crumpled to the floor with her qualm and willed it to go away. Unfortunately, it did no such thing; within what seemed to be days, she was propping herself up on an elbow and loosely clutching the side of one of the buckets she found, emptying into it the contents of her stomach and what felt like more. In the time that she wasn't doing this, she was lying as still as possible in the hopes that the storm would pass.

Eleanor really had no idea for how long she stayed in this position, but it must have been for quite some time because the next thing she knew was the indistinct sound of a voice calling her name, and a confusing amount of footsteps. It was this that led her to attention, raising her head and squinting out of the doorway when she heard someone hurtle past. The illness returned in full height when she sat up, forcing her to double back over her bucket in anticipation, but nothing seemed to come out.

At around the same time, the footsteps came back and the door to her closet flew back on its hinges, flooding her with light. The baker was vaguely aware of two figures trying to shove through the doorframe in the same instance, and then of a pair of rough hands that held her firmly and kept her hair from her face as she continued to be sick. Eleanor was much too ill to try to make out the opaque world around her, but she had a fair clue of who these figures were as she felt a small hand clinging onto hers and a gruff voice on her neck. When she had finished, she gave up trying to convey that she couldn't move and allowed the owner of the rough pair of hands to smoothly sweep her up off the ground and into the air.

When her voice failed her, she was content to set her throbbing head against his shoulder and be carried to her destination. Wherever that was, it didn't seem to be too far away, and she could sense that there were several pairs of eyes on her as her carrier set her back down with more delicacy than she would have expected. Mrs. Lovett could feel someone with a damp cloth dabbing at her mouth, and then someone else feeling of her forehead. All together, there seemed to be over a dozen people buzzing around her, and this did nothing for the haze surrounding her mind. When she opened her eyes, she squinted to focus up at the flickering concern in the eyes of Tobias Ragg, and then the grim expression of the man on her other side. She tried for a smile under their scrutiny, but she wasn't so sure that it came out the way she wanted it to.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was to an empty room as far as she could tell. The storm appeared to be long gone, and so was her sickness except for a lingering soreness in her throat. When she sat up in a cautious expectation, she found her head entirely clear, and sighed in alleviation as she made to look around her. What caught her off-guard – nearly causing her to gasp out loud for the surprise – was the barber that sat just behind her, stock-still except for to breathe. He sat cross-legged with his back to the wall and his arms crossed, his head bowed in an impression of sleep. Slowly, she approached him, and looked warily at the razor held loosely in his right hand. Even more cautiously than before, she peered across at his lax expression set in a light frown and reached out towards his silver tool in a kind of fascination.

She'd hardly touched the instrument before he started violently to attention, and she drew back with the gasp that had been long-coming as he held tighter to his weapon and stared menacingly in her direction. After a moment of uncertainty, she chuckled at their rude start and saw him drop some of his guard to lean back against the wall and sigh. Drawing closer, Eleanor leaned herself forward to set him in a light embrace to the shoulders, and withdrew with a kiss on his cheek as close to his mouth as she dared.

"Thank you, love," she said, and he nodded once in answer.

A moment passed when he seemed to be deliberating something, and then he spoke. It wasn't necessarily how he said it or even what he said that stuck her as odd, but rather how he avoided her gaze as he said it. "How are you feeling?" he asked, and it left much to be desired regarding his tone. His wording was very much the mundane phrase, too, but the subtle way his fingers edged over his razor and toyed with the blade spoke volumes about the intent upon his question.

"Oh, I'd say I was alright," Nellie shrugged, trying to vanish her giddy little smile before he noticed it. "How about you, Mr. T?"

His only answer was to scoff. Glancing across to her warily, he commented on how she was probably very hungry. The barber made a show of grumbling and complaining as he started to get up to fetch her something to put in her stomach, but she stopped him in the protest that she was, as a matter of fact, not hungry at all. He didn't look like he believed her, but complied easily enough to sit back down across from her.

It was just her luck that her stomach decided to contradict her with a demanding growl to punctuate her objections. Sweeney shot her a smug look as she admitted her defeat, and he was quick to drag her off to find something edible. Much to her dissatisfaction, he would not eat anything himself, and he even refused the food that she felt justified to fling at him. Mostly, he was given to ignoring her – until she managed to adorn his cheek with a good helping of plum pudding.

When the ship at last reached the docks of Calais, it was at the most inopportune time, as such things tended to go. It was in the early hours of the morning, when the moon was still quite bright. After the ship had brushed and bumped and come to a stop, there was no one who still slept aboard the Boundless. Feeling certain that she looked something close to death, Eleanor came to stand at the deck rail at the arm of Sweeney. When she turned round and squinted, she was given the impression that she could almost see right across the channel to the cliffs of Dover. Turning back to Mr. Todd with some amount of surprise, she caught him watching her and felt something interestingly warm shift inside of her.

"Fancy that," she breathed. "All that work and time, and all we did was cross the English Channel."


	12. Late Nights and Riverside Fights

A/N: Hello, all! I know it's been absolutely forever since I updated, right? Hopefully, you didn't forget about me. O.o It seems that I give this sort of apology for lateness everytime, but...sorry. I have no excuses, except the usual, and the fact that this chapter was torture to write. Major thanks goes out to all who helped me out with this one - you know who you are. XD It would still look like crap if it weren't for your late-night brilliance in helping me plot things out. Anyway, I'd like to give another thanks to everyone who takes time to review. You have no idea how much it means - you guys are awesome!

Disclaimer (Yes, I'm actually putting one in this chapter): I don't own anything pertaining to Sweeney Todd. All rights belong to their respective owners, as mentioned in chapter numero uno.

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When they first arrived, there wasn't much to do except find a place to stay the night. This proved to be a small inn that proved to be something that sounded to Mr. Todd like a variety of illness masquerading as a prettier word, and it was there that they found Anthony to be quite knowledgeable in the French language. It was too dark to go about looking at any difference in building structure, and too late to go on a search for some source of French entertainment. For that, the barber was very glad.

Early the next morning, after much deliberation, they boarded a train to Paris. Of course, this idea proved to excite Mrs. Lovett very much, and she had Anthony describing the city to her all morning. From what he could tell, it sounded like a French duplicate of London itself, and that was enough to darken his mood considerably. It may have been a new start, but nothing was really going to be changed. By the way the baker kept talking, it looked as if he was going to be hassled into living somewhere near or along the Seine River, which also sounded to him like a fatal pestilence.

"So then, Mr. T…" Eleanor addressed him. The formality of what she called him seemed to him extremely absurd, but he said nothing against it. "What is it that you want to do? Are you going into barbering again, do you think?"

What did he want to do? It was a good question, he himself not having an answer for it. Now that he had the time to think on it, he didn't know of much that appealed to him – only what _didn't _appeal to him. All of life seemed to depend on the next goal already set out for him to reach – kill the judge, kill Mrs. Lovett, appease Mrs. Lovett, elude the constables, escape London. Most were based on the decisions he'd been forced to make or had happened upon, but here was a very simple question provided to him that included no planning, waiting, killing, or running. It was so simple he couldn't answer it.

When the baker still watched him expectantly, he shrugged. It didn't appear to have satisfied her, but it was the only answer he had to give. She sent a withering look across to him, bringing a hand to the shoulder of her apprentice and turning to him, instead. Whatever she said made the boy brighten up like the afternoon sun, but he paid them no mind. Most of that trip he spent trying to ignore the tedious chatter between his accomplice and her shop boy, as well as the more subtle correspondence between Anthony and his daughter.

Tobi was most amused by the mimes in Paris, but they seemed to Sweeney to be sinister in their silence, and so he made a point of avoiding them. Mrs. Lovett, of course, took his disapproval out of proportion, and she thought it quite the amusement that he disliked the mute actors. The baker went so far as to poke fun at the fact that he was "afraid" of them, but he was quick to vanquish her theory by hauling one of the silent clowns into the river. Naturally, she had been outraged, but this put no shame to him in watching the ridiculous mask of paint wash away, and the act disperse as the man hollered in similar indignation.

Anthony was proving some of his worth by negotiating their way into the attic of a library run by a homely old, woman free of charge. Whatever the boy had said to her, however, didn't sit very well with the barber. He could no more understand French than he could make his sleeves turn into toffee, but whenever he was around the old woman he was given the distinct feeling that she was watching him, especially when he was with Eleanor. He'd been meaning to ask the boy just what he told the woman, but whenever he got around to the subject it appeared that there was always something of the utmost importance that needed tending to.

The woman seemed much the old romantic, and she was always seen with a novel in hand that looked suspiciously like a tattered romance. She never read it in his presence, but it was somehow always there, like a part of her aura. This, accompanied with the fact that she ogled at him in magnitude whenever Mrs. Lovett was close at hand, was why he tended to avoid her like he avoided the mimes.

The space in the small attic was rather cramped and crowded with all five people stuffed into it, and most of the time it was either quite stuffy or quite chilling. For the sake of profit, he was willing to tolerate these conditions – but Sweeney Todd was not a patient man. Tolerance only went so far, and the barber could only take so much of the irksome tendencies of the four others. Living in such close quarters was bound to do someone an ill favor, so he reasoned, and therefore he would rather have found a more permanent stead at a quicker rate.

Selecting a moderately affordable spot, conversely, was virtually impossible when Mrs. Lovett was in the deal, and it didn't help that he hadn't a clue what he was going to do once they'd got it. The baker herself didn't appear very partial to any set idea either, and this did not help him in his predicament.

"Suppose we continued on just as we have been," suggested Nellie mildly. She walked at his side along the pavement bordering the Seine, looking down into the water as if it were liable to spit an answer back up at her. "It wouldn't be all that hard, would it? That is, not with all of the – you know." Here, she glanced across to him and motioned a finger across her throat to indicate the means of death. "I was thinking something more along the lines of a fresh start with the old business, but it depends. We can't be having any unwanted visitors, and let's just hope we haven't made an old habit out of our managements. They were a bit untidy."

Her idea might work, he thought, though there was something alluring about the mystery of finding a new way to make a profit. It did make more sense, nevertheless, to go on in the usual way. In the end, he supposed that he didn't really care so much about it all so long as they were alive and the judge was not. Anything else, he could live with.

"Then let us proceed in a more organized fashion," the barber answered her, mostly to humor her more than to make a point. "Spic and span, right, my pet?"

He caught the discreet smile his words induced, though she tried to conceal it through looking at the river. When she looked back to him, he could still see the traces of it even through the foreign flicker that ran across her expression.

"What do you suspect we should do about money, then?" she asked. The point she made was quite obvious: they had not nearly enough money to even give a thought to buying their own establishment at this point, and as nice as their landlady was, he doubted she would allow them to run a business from her library. Therefore, Mrs. Lovett proposed a rather perplexing choice.

Many things could be done to yield proceeds in the city of Paris, some more respectable than others. The first thought he had was to make some sort of entertaining business on the street through Tobias' capable persuasive abilities, but this proposition had its flaws. One such imperfection was the fact that it was none too appealing to the barber to take on this role, and the other being the logical barrier between languages. As good a salesman as the boy was, Sweeney doubted that he would be able to sell much of anything without speaking one lick of French, and schooling was expenditure – not payment.

Thus, another thought crossed his mind. "The woman who owns the library," he said. "Do you think she would supply us with work?"

At his mention, the baker arced her eyebrows at him from her distance and gave a mirthless laugh. "Our landlady, you mean?" Eleanor remarked. "You can't expect her to give us free board and pay us as well, love. I don't know what the boy said to her, but I'm sure the poor woman has given enough by just letting us stay."

"It wouldn't hurt to ask," he replied evenly. If the woman wanted to waste her money by letting them take up space without rent, it was her own problem. If she was willing to pay them for their work, then it was a separate matter. There was nothing Nellie could say against it if the woman agreed to give them work. All in all, the librarian was most likely a very lonely woman; it was his reasoning as to why she would let them stay. He understood the sentiment all too well, and he also had reason to believe that not many would give them room and board for free out of simple kindness.

After a bit of a staring match that he incontrovertibly won, she agreed to at least submit the question. Although the baker may have had an obstinate resolve, she could not amount to his peremptory gaze. Once he'd regarded her for more than a few seconds, Eleanor melted into a silly smile as she tried to contradict it by saying "Oh, alright!" as if annoyed. He could tell, however, that she was far from it.

By the time a minute had gone by, she looked as if she'd forgotten her irritancy entirely and was now pondering what she was about to put into words. He could sense her amusement as she pulled her shawl tighter in an attempt to ward off the nippy air, and in the far-off smirk that she centered on the ground.

"What do you think we ought to name it, Mr. T?" The anticipation caught in her gaze as she looked up to him, and it only grew when he chose to favor her in a glance. For the most part, she was talking nonsense to his ears. For what he knew of naming things, she might have been speaking of a bench. Thus, he was led to give her a questioning look accompanying his query of "What?"

"The business, of course!" she answered, as if it were obvious. "I was thinking, and I don't suggest we do anything all that flashy. Something quaint, maybe. What do they call things like that around here?"

Making it all too clear that he did _not_ want to be on this walk, the barber only sighed. The response she looked for was not something he could easily come up with, and he found himself wondering more about the idea because of her prompting. Assuming they moved out of their cramped library and started a new business from scratch, there were many possibilities as to the where, what, and how. At best, he would not have to listen to Anthony's purring at night.

"Buy a pie; take a try, good enough to die." Eleanor recited in precision. "That should be our slogan. It's got a clever ring, doesn't it?"

Giving a sadistic smile to match hers, he nodded once. "A peculiar idea, and a superior intellect, my pet. Shame it doesn't apply as well as it might if we intended to continue our…disorganized habits." She caught the hint immediately, and returned his shrewd smirk just as vigorously.

By the time the sun had started to begin its descent in the hazy sky, they had made no progress whatsoever in determining a name for their new establishment. For one, they could hardly agree on where they might substantiate it, and neither had proposed a clever solution to making a profit. Sweeney had no patience for her ridiculous stories on the way back, but as long as she seemed to think he was listening then he assumed it was safe to ignore her animated gestures.

When they returned to the library, they agreed upon asking their landlady about work in the morning. Though having been stuffed into the same room as Mrs. Lovett and his daughter may have been considered mildly uncouth, it was a necessary evil. As a positive, so the baker kept reminding him, it allowed him to keep an eye on the relationship between Johanna and the sailor. Mostly, however, it only awarded him with a cramp and much loss of sleep, which in turn left him even less inclined to have to pretend to know what Eleanor was speaking of.

While the baker took her time in perusing the books on the shelves leading to the staircase, Mr. Todd took the stairs in a timely manner up to where the librarian had agreed to squeeze them in, where Tobi sat with a large book in his lap. The boy looked up in alarm when he entered, unbalancing the candle at his side and then quickly moving to catch it. Sweeney only strode past the apprentice and proceeded to lie on his side, facing the wall away from the shop-boy. He could still feel Tobi's eyes on his back long afterwards, though he tried rather hard not to snap at the child. After a few more moments of glaring at the wall as if in accusation, he heard Tobi shift behind him and saw the light flicker with the movement.

"Mr. T…?" questioned the boy after a pause.

Perhaps if he stayed very still and did not answer, the apprentice would believe he was asleep and would leave him alone. "What…?"

Unfortunately for him, Tobi got his keen perception direct from Mrs. Lovett herself. "I've got a question." There was another pause, and he hoped the boy wasn't developing a habit of requiring his acknowledgment before continuing. Otherwise, it would become increasingly difficult to ignore the boy as opposed to Nellie.

"What…?" he repeated, grinding it out of his teeth as he pressed them together.

"Well, I was just wondering. You and Mum…Well, she likes you an awful lot, you know. I was just thinking how it wouldn't do no good if you didn't like her back. So, I guess what I meant to ask is…do you, Mr. Todd? Like her, I mean."

It was unfathomable. For the child even to be asking a question such as this was quite distasteful, and he was unimpressed by the boy's lack of propriety. Moreover, Tobi's suggestion irked him. Aside from the fact that it was impertinent, it prodded something in his mind that he'd rather not be touched. He knew just how deeply the baker had grown attached to him, but to share even a small amount of this fondness in return was derisory. Sweeney had come to terms with the fact that he appreciated Mrs. Lovett, and that he held a certain respect for her. In a sense, he supposed that he might have liked her had he been capable of _liking_ anyone, but never in the meaning that Tobi intended.

"It's none of your concern, boy," he shot back. The child seemed to frown, but he also seemed like he wasn't going to silence himself as the barber hoped. In all actuality, he looked set on making some point that had formed itself in his mind, and he opened his mouth to do just that.

"I beg your pardon, Sir, but it is. Any concern of Mum's is a concern of mine – and believe me, she's very concerned. She ain't gonna say it, and it probably wouldn't be very proper to go nosing around into other people's business for a lady. But I ain't no lady, Mr. T, and I ain't proper neither. Either you like her or you don't."

His forthright nature was another thing he had in common with the woman in question. His position with his arms crossed and his posture upright said that Sweeney's denying this boy information was like denying Mrs. Lovett the opportunity to wash his shirts: a principle impossibility.

"If your mum wants to know something, she may ask it herself," replied the barber indignantly. "Otherwise, I have no obligation to inform you of anything concerning my opinion on the matter."

Still, the boy did not seem deterred by his resistance. Setting his book to the side, he walked around until he was in front of Sweeney, forcing the barber not to ignore him. "Perhaps she's afraid of what you might say – counting on the fact that you'll say something that might hurt her. And besides that, she ain't told me to ask nothing, nor wanted to ask anything. I'm asking for myself. Do you or do you not like her Mr. T? It's gotta be one or the other."

Huffing through his nose, Mr. Todd stared at the wall behind the apprentice in reproach. "Go read your book, boy."

Contrary to demand, Tobi did no such thing. Standing with each leg planted firmly apart, he looked down his nose at Sweeney and shook his head. "I can't. Not until you answer me, Sir. Either you do like her and you're too yellow to say it, or you don't and you don't want her to know. Besides, I can't read. Mum was going to teach me."

Obviously, he wasn't going to get the peace that he intended to receive by coming here. Somehow, he wished that he'd stayed downstairs among the books with Mrs. Lovett. At least then he wouldn't be relentlessly bothered by questions he couldn't rightfully answer.

Like Mrs. Lovett? He ran the risk of submitting an undeserved blow by saying no, but he'd never hear the end of it if he lied to get the boy off his back. In all honesty, he didn't fully know. He certainly didn't like her in the context of Tobi's description, but there was always something about her that led him towards a particular admiration of her unprecedented allure. _Liking_ was a matter of psychological attachment and personality; this was a matter more of somewhat unconscious physical attraction and toleration. Tobi, however, was not searching for a response demonstrating the baker's ability to conduct the right movements with her lips: therein lay his problem.

Was his admiration of Mrs. Lovett's being a woman enough to constitute for the shop-boy's romanticized version of "like?" If it was to get the child to halt his pestering, then he might be better off in saying it was. This would go straight to Eleanor, naturally, and therefore he was plagued by the complication of a potential misunderstanding. If he did not she "like" in the same light, then he also may be better off in saying he did not like her at all.

That, as well, would go straight to Mrs. Lovett. He did not know why it bothered him so to have her know he did not, except to say that he wanted to be exact. The barber did not want her thinking he held her in the same regard as he had before, when he'd first arrived from Australia, but he also did not want her to think she was more than she was to him. Strictly speaking, she was a friend if ever he was to have one.

Fortunately for him, Anthony was very unthinking when it came to walking into a room. Before Tobi could question him more, the sailor tumbled through the doorway and vaulted himself into his designated corner. He seemed not to notice the obvious tension present in the room, disregarding the way Tobi was hovering over Sweeney or the way Sweeney was glaring. He was all too ignorant to the interrogation he'd just interrupted, and made much adieu over shaking loose the stones from his shoes. Quite loudly, Anthony announced that the day had been very nice for a grand city of this size, and Mr. Todd thought he would never have been so keen on the sailor's impudence than he was just then.

He maintained a steady glower even when Eleanor walked into the room, followed shortly by his daughter. Almost immediately, the baker picked up on his dissatisfaction. Though she said nothing of it in the presence of the others, she was content to place herself at his side – between himself and her apprentice – and run a hand through the mess that was his hair. It had ceased to surprise him that he was content to let her.

That night, sleep was hard to come by. Besides the fact that he'd made a habit out of not getting much of it, the temperature had dropped considerably low in their oppressive little attic, and there were four too many people to share the space with. From what little sleep he was able to get, he was left eyeing the dark space before him miserably. It was in this time that he finally noticed it.

Most in the room were shivering in their dour sleep, because most did not have any sort of blanket except for the clothes on their backs. Tobi was the only one who had a quilt because they had agreed to give it to him as he was the youngest. The barber didn't particularly care who had the bleeding quilt, but he was not at all pleased by Anthony and Johanna's method of keeping warm. They clung to each other like vines in their sleep, and this left only Mrs. Lovett and himself to be totally without warmth. He himself didn't take mind of it, but he could see Eleanor quivering all over.

And it was more than that – she almost looked to be twitching. Or was that shuddering? It wasn't a spasmodic thing; it was quiet and subdued, and ailment lurking under the surface. She was feverish. Was she ill? He'd no doubt the sodding woman would try to hide something like that from him until it killed her. For awhile, he simply watched her. She didn't make any drastic movements, but her chest rose and fell rapidly with an accelerated breathing. Her lips trembled, and yet she made no sound.

When it got to the point where he could concentrate on nothing else, he got up and left the room. Stalking warily down the dark staircase, Sweeney came upon the library a second flight down and trudged among the shelves in a sort of daze. He could barely see the moon through the line of windows on the far wall, and he took this time to apprehend the collection of books in the library. Nothing seemed to interest him.

The condition of his baker was something to be wondered at, and he hoped for all of their sakes that she hadn't become suddenly ill. That sort of thing knew how to spread, not to mention in their confined little attic, and he knew that if Eleanor was sick then he'd probably have caught it as well before the end of the week. Knowing her, he'd also be the one having to care for her because of her neglect to her own well-being.

As it turned out, she wasn't ill in the least. The real problem was her nightmares, as he learned by watching her symptoms. Nellie was stubborn when it came to admitting this, but he had more than enough evidence against her protests after watching her over a period of several nights where he'd eventually creep down into the library. On the fourth night, he'd only been sorting through uninteresting titles for a few minutes before he heard and then saw her come down after him.

It wasn't that she'd intentionally followed him; she stumbled her way down the stairs and crossed the room blearily towards the doors outside. She hadn't even seen him. From what he could make of her expression in the unforgiving light, she looked grim. When she returned from the night air a few moments later, he made a point of stepping out to meet her. She had her eyes trained on the ground as she came upon him, caught somewhere between a yawn and a groan.

"Oh!" The baker clamped a hand to her mouth and the other to her heart as she nearly jilted into him, tripping backwards and gasping through her fingers. "Mr. T…! What in God's name are you doing sneaking around down here?! …could scare a woman out of her wits."

"A question I might ask of you as well, my pet." He caught her by the shoulder as she swayed, giving her a thorough stare. It looked more as if the sleep had never left her: she squinted up at him through the dim light as if she'd hardly seen him before, and the dark half-circles shadowing her eyes brought out a passably formidable image. If he hadn't known any better, he might have said she was sickly.

As it was, she was hardly in a state fit for wandering about in the middle of the night. He took the liberty of urging her to go back to sleep, but she would not hear of it. With a fierce resolve, she was fairly adamant about doing quite the opposite. When he demanded her reasoning, she became suspiciously evasive. Though he knew full well why she had been disturbed enough to get up and come down into the library, he failed to comprehend why Mrs. Lovett couldn't simply give in to sleep. The baker looked exhausted, and thus being awake would not have been a problem.

Still, she refused to tell him why. They might have stood there and argued until the sun came up if it hadn't defied his entire argument, but then perhaps that was why Eleanor was so set on arguing. In the end, he decided that he would have to use another method to get the baker to do what he wanted. Obviously, persuasion wasn't going to work, and so he wondered whether or not she wouldn't just fall asleep if he allowed her to talk enough. It seemed as if she was almost afraid to close her eyes, and this did not make sense to him in the context of Nellie being a pragmatic woman. Surely she would be practical enough to recognize that it was just a dream?

The barber might have simply left her to her problem if not for the fact that it would penalize him as well for her to be tired. By the librarian's gracious assent, they had started work by sorting and hauling books, as well as dusting, sweeping, and any of the various tasks she felt them capable of accomplishing. If during this work Eleanor were to be neglecting her duty, then Sweeney would be faced with picking up her slack or receiving less profit. This, essentially, meant more time until they could afford to start up their efficient little business again, and more time spent in their exceptionally tiny attic.

If only to prevent this, Mr. Todd stepped across to the nearest shelf, picked out the most disgustingly sentimental book he could find, and returned to the baker wielding it like a trophy. Naturally, she gave him a look at his coming at her with a romance novel, but was interested enough not to mock him so as to wait and see what he might do. Taking this opportunity as it came, the barber swept an arm about her shoulders and magnificently directed her to sit at his side as he flipped to the first page of the novel.

More or less, she looked too surprised to actually pull together a coherent protest, but if she knew what he was doing then she said nothing of it. Eleanor put up a fair fight against her body's will as far as he was concerned, and she did a good job of keeping to her resolve. Her head had only tipped towards his shoulder twice by the middle of the third chapter, and this did well to irritate him. There was something to be said for her pertinacity when he finally felt that he could tolerate no more of the invidious words that he read out from the sickening novel, and it was this moment that she chose to give in and place her head precariously onto his shoulder as well as her arms about his waist in a noisome sigh. It may not have been the most agreeable position, but he forced himself to keep repeating the words from the page until he felt her to be limp against him, at which point he took the greatest amount of care not to cause and noise or jostle the baker as he set aside the repugnant book and took her in his arms. Ascending the stairs was an aggravatingly slow process under this circumstance, and her untamed curls tickled and itched his face the entire journey.

The barber bit back a curse as his caught his foot on the end of Tobi's blanket on entering the room, and held to Eleanor tighter as if this might prevent her from waking. He stood tense in expectation a moment after regaining his balance, hoping he'd not picked up on Mrs. Lovett's clumsy habits, and when she only mumbled something incomprehensible against his neck he felt it safe to stiffly move to set her down.

In this endeavor, he felt justified to lie at her side at least until morning, when he would move before the others woke and questions arose. This was the first night that started this tradition, and thereafter it was the same. He would read from whatever she liked each night until sleep overtook her, and then he would make sure that she did not awaken again by lying at her side, always moving before she woke up. They made it through many of the English books in the library this way, and even went so far as trying to decipher some of the French. This, of course, never got very far.

That morning went the same as always: Johanna taught Tobi the reading that Mrs. Lovett had started off doing herself, Anthony mapped out the town in search of a respectable work, and Mr. Todd and the baker cleaned out the numerous cobwebs of the library for a good portion of the day. The librarian watched them each with a suspicious eye as they worked, quick to point out the spots that Sweeney had missed versus Eleanor's various mishaps. He was under the distinct impression that she had taken a disliking to him, and yet the look she gave him whenever he was forced to communicate to her through a series of gestures was always one of sympathy. Though this was something he invariably did not need, it was something that interested him.

"Say, Mr.T, what do you think?"

Nellie came out from behind a mirror conveniently covered with a sheet wearing a large, robust hat covered in brightly colored floral décor. She surveyed his unchanged expression in amusement and flipped the hat from her head, deciding that it was a better idea to weight it upon his own head. This did not entertain him in the least, and he shoved the hat back in her direction along with her broomstick.

"We were sent back here to clean, Eleanor, not to try on clothing."

"Oh, don't be such a stiff blighter, Mr. T," she said airily. Rolling her eyes and brushing past him, she expertly swept up a small pile of dust which she aimed for him when she whacked at it. He managed to step out of the path of the airborne filth before it hit his lungs, shooting her a warning glance. She, above all others, should know how important the meaning of the word "clean" was, and how they needed to do this in a timely manner. Since fanning dust about was not helping the matter at hand, he had to wonder at her frame of mind.

"We don't have time to clean this up a second time," he almost snapped at her. She might have winced, but her small smirk stayed in place when she sauntered towards him. Trying to concentrate solely on getting rid of the grainy dust that was spread across the wooden floor and sunken into the long cracks, he found this to be a very difficult thing to do while being distracted by Mrs. Lovett's demanding presence.

"Kill-joy," she accused lightly.

In lieu of a verbal response lest she decide to make a rant out of it, he merely grunted at her. What he did not foresee was how this could have provoked her more, as it in fact did.

"You know," she started, pacing towards him in a deliberately measured fashion, "considering I've been cleaning things my entire life, I'm fairly sure I'd be able to brighten up this space a bit faster than you. What do you say?" The challenge in the look she gave him was enough for him to recognize her intentions even before she elaborated. "Let's make a formal gamble out of it."

Rolling his eyes, he turned to her and leaned against his broom. "Alright; if I win, you have to keep your mouth shut for twenty-four hours."

This proposition had her grinning at him as he returned to sweeping at the floor, and she thought a moment with a finger at her chin before looking up. "Fair enough, but if _I_ win, then you are going to have to be nice to me for an entire day. That means no tricks, snide comments, dirty looks, insensitive attitudes, or death threats. Is that clear?"

Nodding once, the barber favored her with a small smirk. "Agreed. This half is mine."

That left her with the slightly bigger half, if the giant wardrobe was being counted, where she had already made a mess by trying to fling dust at him. Surprisingly, she made no complaint. Instead, she went about her work at a slightly quicker rate, matching his mood with a tune on her lips. Though he might have considered the melody to be quite befitting, he would not admit such a thing. Disregarding this, he watched her from the corner of his eye to make sure she did not get too far ahead in her work. As far as he could tell, he was already winning.

Somehow, he found a rug to be a very stubborn object when it came to cleaning. He was sated to know that as much trouble as the rugs gave him was about as much trouble Mrs. Lovett received from trying to get around objects too heavy for her to lift. It seemed that these were the tasks that each had saved until the end, simply because they were the most difficult. Neither of them, however, was getting very far by staring down at their chore. As much as he beat and scoured the rugs, they still remained filthy and ragged just as Eleanor could not lift the grand wardrobe a centimeter for all of her pulling and straining.

Sending calculating glances to one another the entire time, they each circled around their seemingly impossible duty with an air of obstinacy. Though Mr. Todd knew that the smarter option would have been to call off the bet in order to finish straightening the room before the librarian wondered what had happened to them, he refused to give in before Nellie did herself. He was sure she thought much the same; thus, they were at an impasse.

They might have continued on like this for hours, if not for Anthony. He came looking for them somewhere in-between desperation and confusion, and found them in much the same state. It was he who strongly suggested that they get a move-on, offering a game of cards as incentive. Mrs. Lovett, being practical and not being able to resist the double challenge, took the bait immediately. Without much choice left in the matter, Sweeney followed her.

"It's a draw, then, love?" Grazing his arm as she danced past him, the baker observed his reaction in such a way that ignited his sense of pride into replying that it most certainly was not. If anything, the game of cards would determine who came out victorious. Though this proposition may not have been in his best interests considering Nellie's talent with a deck of cards, he refused to simply forfeit.

Once Eleanor had finished making the process of cleaning a rug look much easier than he found it to be and he had moved all the desired furniture out of her way, they added the finishing touches with Anthony's willing help and started up the stairs. Johanna and Tobi met them halfway up, prompting them to travel back down into the library due to the space it provided. Since no one could say anything against such a statement, they made their way to a small table sitting inconspicuous in the corner, positioning themselves around it in such a manner that Anthony and Johanna got the privilege of chairs. Mr. Todd and his baker, on the contrary, made themselves comfortable on the floor at their feet.

Just as expected, Mrs. Lovett won at a terribly high rate, beating each of them in their own turn. Surprisingly, she wore her poker face extraordinarily well. Deciding to sit out the last few games in order to give the others a chance for victory, the baker seemed content to sit at Mr. Todd's side and observe. Being the better in their little gamble, it came across as unusual that she might not press the matter.

Still, he was convinced that she had somehow found some way to cheat. How else could she beat him every time without fail? It was ridiculous.

At first, Nellie did not mind sitting in the sidelines, but she soon became restless. Resorting to fidgeting, she was quickly making a nuisance of herself. He might have told her to go, or at least to still herself, but she soon founded a new inspiration for entertainment. It was this that kept him from telling her such, as it kept him from almost anything except gripping tightly the cards in hand.

It was all he could do just to grit his teeth as she dug her palms into his back, though he desperately wished that she would either press harder or restrain herself entirely. Distraction as it was, he couldn't bring himself to order her to stop. It served as amusement for the rest, not to mention the woman herself, to watch him struggle. Somehow, the baker knew just where to place her touch so that his thoughts were continually being disrupted and shattered into oblivion.

This did nothing for his losing streak, but it evoked some humor in his daughter in the occasional and irrepressible shudder. He tried to block her out for the most part, disregarding Johanna's discrete laughter as he tried to concentrate on the game. Not all things were able to be smothered so easily, however, and Mrs. Lovett was such that it was difficult to ignore.

"What are you doing?" he ground out over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of her small smile. He attempted to convey his displeasure by glaring rather conspicuously, but she halted him in this action as well by following his spine down his back and then taking on his shoulders.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Somehow, she found a way not to agitate him with this comment. Leaning in closer, to look over his cards he could only presume, he could feel the warmth from her proximity and her breath on his neck as she whispered into his ear. "Best not play that one, love."

Trying to shrug her off and being thoroughly unsuccessful, Sweeney sent her a look over his shoulder. "Making a pest of yourself. I'll play whatever I bloody well feel like, Eleanor."

She said nothing, but he could feel her retaliation in the strength applied to his shoulders. Fighting a groan that was pressed against the back of his teeth, he ignored Anthony's discrete movement to cover his smile with a hand and played his card despite Mrs. Lovett's warning. What resulted proved to irk him when it portrayed that Nellie had been correct in her advice; this move was his last as it brought upon him Johanna's winning. Sighing immensely as the baker congratulated his daughter with a few words, he found he did not have the energy to carry out this frustration.

Whatever Mrs. Lovett had done, it had drained him. He knew that if he wanted to, he could have done a lot of things. He could have thrown his cards down to the table and stalked upstairs, grabbed the baker and thrust her backwards, demanded of Tobi why he was so apt to glower at him, or challenged Anthony to a new game. It was not a question of whether or not he could; for certain, he knew that he was able to do all of these things and more within seconds, but he had not the resolve to do so. As odd as it might have been, he didn't _want_ to.

"Making a pest of myself, am I?" said Eleanor, looking very much like she was having fun. Dragging her knuckles down his back in an excruciatingly slow fashion, she punctuated her statement by evoking a shiver from his bones. "Are you quite sure of that?"

Swallowing on the parched condition of his throat, the barber turned so that her face was nearly touching his own. "Absolutely."

Distinctly clearing his throat, the sailor stood form his place in an attempt to make a hasty exit. Johanna followed just behind him, and caught up in time to take his arm as they rounded the corner without another word. Tobias watched this departure for a split second, but he did not pursue it. Staying silently in his spot, he crossed his arms and examined the cuffs of his jacket, failing miserably at trying to look like he wasn't watching Nellie and Mr. Todd.

"Really, now?" Mrs. Lovett continued, teasing the collar of his shirt as she traced her fingers over the skin there and then back down to his shoulder blades. "…because it seems to me," she added, barely audible as she dragged her hands down his arms to gently yank his cards from his tight grasp, "that you could be enjoying yourself. Is this true, Mr. Todd?"

The strict compression of his chest that held captive his breath wholeheartedly agreed, but the better part of his mind would not admit this, especially when Tobi was present. Though he was unable to gather the voice to respond, he shook his head in the slight negative as he observed her fingers carefully place his cards on the table in front of him. His eyes itched to close as the woman let the air escape her lungs somewhere behind his left ear, but he refrained from giving in to the impulse.

Eleanor acted as if she might have said more, but the remainder of the moment was shattered when the librarian found them. She made her way to where they sat, carrying the usual novel at her side, and squinted accusingly at him as she gave a series of demands in French. These were incomprehensible to all three pairs of ears that she directed them at, and so she pointed to the room behind the stairs and utilized what little English she knew to form an understanding.

"Clean?" she imposed. Mr. Todd nodded once. Still looking at him, she turned her extended finger to the cards on the table. "Take. Go."

Collecting the remnants of their game and stuffing it in Tobi's direction, he got to his feet in a languid manner and truly felt the effects of Mrs. Lovett's entertainment. Though he had not detected it at first, possibly because he had been sitting down, the barber could now feel the entirety of his back as he'd not felt it before. Muscles he'd not been aware of possessing were loosened in their place, and it was a peculiar type of relief that overtook him. It was so much that he might have said something of it aside from the sharp intake of breath that had the others watching him, had the librarian and Tobias not been present.

Keeping to himself under the circumstance, Sweeney led the way around the corner and to the foot of the stairs, where he stopped. Before Eleanor could even interject her response, he had dragged her outside. Not bothering to turn to look where her shop-boy may have gone to, he kept her at his heels until they were a good distance away from the library. Only then did he slow his brisk pace, and the baker skidded to slow herself as well.

"What on Earth –" she began, but he interrupted her.

"If we don't do this now, we'll never find a suitable place. We're shopping for a residence."

When she asked why, mostly in reference to his timing, he could not answer her. Lapsing into silence, she followed almost at a loss. The sky overhead threatened rain with its unhealthy grey hues, and she glanced at it worriedly. It was too much like London.

When she tripped, he steadied her. When he was rudely pushed to the side, she pulled him along. They kept a mutual silence for almost four blocks, until even he was forced to admit that he did not know where he was going. She didn't question him, even when he knew she was well aware of the fact that they had turned around almost five times. The baker only gazed curiously, even when he stopped completely to glare down at the street – as if it was the reason behind his being lost.

Not once did he think of asking her where they were as much as she took care not to mention that he did not know. It did not cross his mind to ask the crowd surrounding them, just as she did not remind him. They did not stop again, her following his direction blindly, until the clouds finally gave way.

The first raindrop fell onto Mrs. Lovett, and she flinched. Neither fancied getting wet, and the dread between them both was enough to create another, more pressing need than finding their location: shelter. Sticking close to the river, he took a small set of stairs down onto a walkway bordering the Seine and tugged her underneath the nearest section of bridge just before the deluge was released. It was there that they stayed, eventually relinquishing decorum to sit on the worn cobbles with their backs to the wall.

He was more content to sit and stare at the river in frustration, if not for Nellie's tendency to not be able to keep herself quiet. She continued to talk even after the numerous hints he'd given that he'd prefer the opposite, and it did nothing to help his frustration. He was frustrated not at her, but at the rain, at the loss of direction, at his inability to find a suitable residence, and at the city of Paris itself for being so similar to the hell hole that was London. The baker tended not to notice, but something in the way she looked at him told him that she was trying rather hard to distract him.

"…can't believe it, myself. Can you, Mr. T? I mean, the things you hear these days. You'd think people would have a little decency," she was saying. From the tone of her voice and the look on her face, she wasn't at all pleased. He hadn't the faintest idea what she was speaking of, having toned out the first half, but he supposed that listening to her was better than wallowing in indignation. "Well, I'm no Frenchman I guess, but it's pretty clear what to make of it when they're taking turns aiming small rocks down my front. I would've given them what for it Johanna hadn't been there, bless her soul – she didn't notice a thing, but I certainly won't let it happen again. Speaking of which, do you know what she said to me the other day?"

On it went. It wasn't that he wasn't listening to her; he was just politely putting her in the background and thinking through her. He heard every word she told him, of course, he just did not feel the need to process or reply to a lot of what he was told. If she asked him to repeat her last sentence, he could certainly do just that. The baker didn't notice the difference, or if she did then he knew that she would not be one to say anything for it.

"I suppose that this is the closest we'll get to the sea, then, eh? Living next to a river." Sighing, she nudged herself closer to him. She had an air of wanting to do something else, but he was unsure of what. Chill bumps were visible across the flesh of her arms, and her hair had grown larger than normal in the moisture of the air. This gave her appearance a semblance of comedy, but he did his best not to let the humor reach his face as much as she put up a front in pretending she wasn't cold. He didn't believe her for a moment when she insisted that she wasn't, but if she would rather suffer in pride than keep herself warm, then it was no problem of his.

"The sea," he stated, not even glancing at her. From the corner of his eye, he saw the look she gave him as her jaw dropped – awed by the fact that he was actually listening to her, no doubt. "What in the world is so riveting about the bloody ocean, Eleanor?"

It was what she'd been harping on for quite awhile, nagging him about it at every chance she got. He didn't understand what could possibly be so wonderful about gritty, damp sand that stuck to everything and got everywhere and a volatile body of acrid water that neither tasted nor smelled very pleasant. In his mind, her fascination was ludicrous. There was no reason to wish to live near something so bothersome, where it was always windy and rained just as much as it did in London. Even the mosquitoes were bigger, there.

"Everything," the baker said, sounding mildly offended. "The soft, warm sand, the clear blue skies, the smell of the salt, the sound of the water, the little breeze, the seagulls, the sun…what isn't there to like? I've always wanted to live there, Mr. T; you know that."

He scoffed. "I do. Eleanor, it rains, it stinks, the sand…If you live near that, it'll get old soon enough."

"Never! I've always wanted that; I told you."

The baker stared defiantly past him at the undulating ripples of the rain on the pitching river, and set her arms crossed over her chest in a silent challenge, daring him to say something against her argument. This act of remonstrance only encouraged his aptness to do just that, taking into account that proving Mrs. Lovett wrong was something justifiably enthralling. There were many things that could be said of her, but being in the right was one that he could not tolerate after having half of his life torn from him on her doing. Faults came from every direction and were out of the question, but there was no doubt of whether or not she had a role in any of it.

"And I've always wanted the death of the judge who so injustice myself and my family," Sweeney put forth sternly, observing her reaction as her brows knitted together. "And do you know what I had when I finally got what I wanted, Mrs. Lovett?"

She flinched at the digression of casualty between them, opening her mouth once and then closing it again. The baker stayed like that a moment, blinking at the river in the semblance of a confused fish before turning to him with something in her gaze that looked suspiciously close to fear. Looking directly at him, her dark eyes were large as they searched his. Nellie drew in a long breath through parted lips as if to speak, and then released it just as slowly.

"Well…?" he prompted, feeling humored by her loss for words.

Eleanor shook her head; for once, he had found a way to silence her altogether.

"Nothing," he answered for her, not meeting her round stare. "I had nothing. Satisfaction does not last forever. You say, Mrs. Lovett, that you will never grow tired of the sea. I said the same thing of revenge. It gets tiresome. You may live by the sea and not be any happier, but wait – as you so wisely put it – a few years. Then what, pet?"

"It's not the same at all," she insisted, her eyes pleading. "It's a completely different matter. Just because you didn't have future plans, love, doesn't mean that I don't either. It could only get better; I don't plan on making a routine out of it. Besides…none of it would matter if you weren't there, Mr. T."

This last statement caught him off-guard; normally, the most she did for her affection was drop hints and make intimate gestures. He was not used to this more straightforward display, and it startled him into turning to look at her, her eyes laced with a concern that he couldn't fathom. Under most circumstances, her more direct confessions usually came from a certain desperation, and it was this that he recognized in her. Desperation for _what_, he had yet to find out.

It was true: when he first plotted to kill the Judge, he'd given no thought to what would happen afterwards. Killing Turpin was his only purpose, and so it made sense that everything would simply end there. Of course, it hadn't. Mrs. Lovett's plans, however, were something he considered far-fetched and senseless. She dreamed of living by the seaside, living with _him, _and getting wed. She had planned his future _for_ him, under the impression that he might actually be inclined to do any of these things.

"Did you ever entertain the possibility," Mr. Todd sneered, "that I might not want to go live by the wretched seaside? …that I might not _want_ to marry you? …that I might not _love_ you? …that I might not appreciate your lies so carefully crafted to _better_ things? _Did_ you?"

She assumed too much – she always did. What did she expect? He was Sweeney Todd, all that was left of Benjamin Barker, set only on revenge. He had no love, not even for Lucy. Now that he'd fulfilled his purpose, he knew only what Benjamin knew, and the certain attachment of the crime. Sharing such a deed with another person was like ripping out half of his entire existence and putting it in their hands; it required a lot of trust. Apparently, it was trust that was very misplaced. He'd already established it wasn't her fault when it was out of a series of bad decisions made not only by her, especially because of her mind being tainted by such a preposterous thing as love. He couldn't blame her, but he could be angry.

"Mr. Todd…" the baker breathed, sounding like the breath had been crushed out of her. She looked stricken, her expression wavering between uncertainty and hysterics. It must have taken almost all she had just to breathe at all, from the looks of her, and he gave her credit for holding back the tears at the edges of her agonized stare. "Sweeney…love, you know…you know I only lied because –"

"You love me. Yes. I don't doubt it. But you lied." It may have been a little pain from seeing the woman so torn up over his words that itched in his chest, but he was too busy proving her wrong to notice. "You _lied_. Do you realize the extent of your actions, Mrs. Lovett? Lucy was a lunatic. I accept that, and it isn't your fault. I might have been able to spare enough money to keep her out of trouble…but _love_?"

She did well to hide the moan that escaped her, looking at him like it would kill her if she did much else. The liquid in her eyes threatened to spill over, but she held her ground with a fierce tenacity. The fire in her cheeks and in her eyes gave proof for admiration, and he thought for a split second that perhaps that tension in his throat was not his amusement or ire at all.

"What…what are you saying, Mr. T? You don't mean…" She struggled in his presence to gather enough air to keep going. "You don't love…"

"Lucy…?" He regarded her with a gaze too cold, perhaps, for his liking. "Benjamin loved her. I avenged her. I don't _love_, Mrs. Lovett. The grief that I possess would be less at seeing her insane than seeing her dead, but Benjamin's love for her posed no threat to you. Benjamin is dead."

She gaped wider than she might have in her entire life, and he watched her start to crumble. "…but…Johanna…"

"She is my daughter, but I am not her father. I see her only through the past, my pet. I _cannot_ love her, and I _do_ not love you."

The baker hesitated, her countenance something he'd seen on no one before her. It might have mirrored his own ache, had he paid attention to it anymore. She looked as if to prepare herself for something, and swallowed. He found her last desperate act to be the one that got him the most; she was even so bold as to kiss him, capturing his lips in her excruciation and entertaining his tongue with her hasty passion. The sadness he tasted was bitter, and the throe was worse. The query in her lead stare was all too obvious when she released him.

"Love, Mrs. Lovett, is not nearly the same as lust. You should know what I want of you."


	13. Quickened Pace in a Troubled Chase

A/N: Hello! I finally finished this one! As things turn out, it was way harder to write this chapter than I thought. I hope you have fun with it, though. I don't think I need to up the rating, but if you think I do then don't hesitate to inform me. It's nothing too graphic, ladies and gents. I tried my hand at Mrs. Lovett's accent in this chapter, so I hope that turns out well enough for you guys, too. I think that's all I have to say... As always, reviews are extremely appreciated! A huge, gigantor thanks to everyone who does! Cheers!

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It couldn't have been much past four, but it was portrayed much later by the darkness cast in the skies by the roaring deluge. Eleanor could feel the rain sinking into her dress and weighting her down as she pulled herself along the street, but she continued to walk for fear of what she might do if she stopped. At least by moving, she didn't feel quite so helpless.

She could still feel the hole that his stare had burned into the back of her neck as she had soundlessly walked away, throbbing something awful at every step leading away from the man she hated to love. The baker was lead to wonder if it was even worth the trouble: if it wasn't somehow easier to simply give up. He could be her most blissful salvation or her throes of destruction. To be manipulated so was pain enough. If he obviously didn't care, then why did she even bother? After all hope had been drained from her, how did she go on?

None of it added up. The barber truly surprised her at moments, giving her a glimpse of something close to concern within his endless apathy. Other moments, such as this, left her feeling desolate and hollow. His very nature that she'd thought she knew so well was starting to confuse her. Sweeney Todd himself was a man of mystery, but not so much as to not be predictable to those who knew him – those such as her. Recently, on the contrary, he was given to instances of unpredictability that were not so violently spontaneous as to be predictable, and it confused her. What was considered usual for the common man was something she'd never expect in a thousand years from Mr. Todd, which was why his oddly mundane reactions as of late had her less prepared for his standard bite.

How could he contradict himself by showing ill-disguised sympathy through caring for her, and then turning around to say that all he was interested in was strict, anatomic sensuality? He gave her hope only to shoot it down, but still somehow found a way to loft it back into flight each time. Eleanor knew that she was in too deep to stop it, but she was wholly sick of his exploitations and hypocrisy. Had it been purely corporeal to buy her flowers, or to read to her each night she could not sleep?

The barber himself was misguided; either he cared for her or he did not, but it could not be both. He could not continue to deceive either her or himself without first driving the cold stake deeper inside of her. If the fire had not succeeded in ending her life, then this splitting perplexion and hard frustration would put a desolate end to the unfinished job. By then her strength was slipping, and without his willingness to at least throw her a rope she felt that she might truly fade away.

She had not the courage to make up her mind to get away from him, and so she kept walking along the glistening street in the hopes of sorting something out and lessening the hurt. Mrs. Lovett knew that she could not forsake him, but neither could she forsake herself. Even greater was the fear that if she _did_ have the ability to take on his cold proceeding and turn it against him, what he might do and whether he might plainly decide he did not care after all.

The shadows grew increasingly longer as she made her way aimlessly astray from the place where she'd walked away from him, and the light encompassing her surroundings grew dimmer as time passed. Doubtless, Mr. T was just as lost as she with regards to finding the library again. As distraught as she may have been, the baker still had the presence of mind to realize that she had to go back eventually. She didn't fancy spending her night on the street just as much as Sweeney, and she knew that she would have to face him again eventually.

Until then, Mrs. Lovett didn't want to think about finding her way back. Common sense told her she should be very concerned over the matter, but she just didn't have the heart to care. She didn't know whether it was him or herself; whether he was a stubborn hypocrite, or she was pushing a lost cause. It certainly seemed as if she might as well give up and stop pestering him, but truth be known the baker didn't even know how to go about giving up after coming this far. If she distanced herself deliberately, she would only be hurting herself. Even if she wanted to scream and throw a tantrum in the middle of the darkened street, run back and slap the sense he lacked into the barber, or sit down and cry her heart out, it was simply too hard _not_ to try.

The only thing she could think of to do was keep walking. Was it true that even after escaping with her and risking his life, coming after her when she was too weak to hold up the bucket she was retching into, and staying up with her every night, he could still care so little for her? Was she nothing more than a harlot and an accomplice? …how big of a mistake had she made by leaving out that small detail about Lucy being alive, even if she was a raging lunatic?

She didn't understand how her life had all gone so terribly wrong. So much of it had been devoted to Sweeney and the man he used to be that she couldn't just start over. At any rate, she was too old for that sort of thing. Once she had reached a certain point, the past was all she had left, as much as she tried to be optimistic. Mostly, her optimism was all for show. The barber had possession of her every sentiment and her entire soul, no matter what he chose to do with this. He was her very purpose; a life without him was to her not a life at all. Because of this, it was impossible for her to move on, and impossible for her to move forward.

Though she felt as if her heart was bleeding out of her chest and pulsing cold ice through her veins, the baker was not in tears. She walked the streets with a dry complexion, getting farther and farther from the library as she wandered. At that moment, her mind was too busy working out her thoughts to concentrate on weeping. She was devoid of all but despair, that having overwrought all else. This pain was bearable – as compared to worse things, she was perfectly capable of coping with his voicing something she'd almost already known. It was deserved, and she was not one for wallowing in self-pity.

Every now and then, Eleanor caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision, as a shadow in the corner of her eye. The small flicker was barely noticeable and hardly a threat, but somehow it had her on edge in looking for it. It was likely her imagination of a stray cat, but the fact that she kept seeing it was enough to arouse suspicion. Once, she stopped fully to whirl on it and scour the area behind her with a sweeping gaze, but turning on her heel and staring at empty space left her feeling foolish and ridiculous, and so she did not do it again.

Feeling thoroughly worried by the whole ordeal and more than a little distraught as it had gone on for at least an hour, Nellie began to walk in a more deliberate direction. She aimed for the next corner, trying to seem as if this was no different than any other movement she had made, and glanced about her in the hopes of unmasking her pursuer. By this time, the baker was in almost all confidence that she was being followed. It seemed as if it was only one figure that trailed after her, but she got the sense that there were others not far behind. Suddenly, Mr. Todd seemed less of a threat than what might lie in wait beyond the next corner. Before she had time to regret her decision or turn around, Eleanor felt a series of shadows approach her from behind. They were larger than she'd expected from the flicker she'd been seeing, and surprisingly close given she'd only just seen the little blur dart behind a building some number of yards away.

What slid up behind her were three young men, all looking rather devious with their hands in their pockets and strategically placed smiles. They could not have been much older than twenty, and they all approached her as a cat did a mouse just before it pounced. This unnerved her a great deal, and she made a show of looking like she was in a hurry to be somewhere close by.

"Où allez-vous, Mademoiselle?" queried the one who placed himself in center, the blonde whiskers on his face a clear indicator of the need of a good shave. If Mrs. Lovett were not so keen on fearing for her wellbeing, she might have itched to take a razor to the man. As it was, she could not understand his question, and so ignored him and walked briskly on in the hope that he'd leave a poor, old woman like her alone. Naturally, he kept up with her quite persistently.

"La belle est inquiete, n'est-ce pas…?" said the one grinning on the left. Though she did not recognize his words, the baker could literally feel the sick intent dripping from them. He glanced from her to his companions, who quickly surrounded her and forced her to a stop. "Nous ne sommes pas dangereux, mon petite chaton."

Feeling a bout of panic as they closed in on her, she darted to the side to push up against the barricade that was the blonde's shoulder; he caught her by the wrist, smirking at her reaction, and shoved her back between where they crowded her up against the cold, stone wall.

Why had she gone and walked down the most deserted street in all of Paris? Why, again, hadn't she just stayed with Sweeney?

Whatever words these French boys tried to console her with were useless, even more so because she knew exactly what they were meaning to do. It was a mystery to her what they wanted her for at her age; she would hardly consider herself the ideal victim, having been old enough to be one of their mothers. She marveled at what their mothers might have even said, given their outrageous behavior. Then again, their upbringing must have been something awful to induce this sort of lack in morale. Even Johanna, who was reared by the hand of a rapist and locked in one room for most of her life, had more grace and decorum than these miscreants who were barely old enough to call themselves men.

She sorely wished she had a rolling pin handy so she could give these knaves what they had coming for them, knowing she stood virtually no chance against the strength of three. Never having cared all that much for propriety, the baker was steadfast for not being taken so easily. They wouldn't hear any screams from _her_ – certainly not. She wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of a girlish pleading and panic. If she was going, then these barbaric kids were going to get a few marks of their own to show for it.

The moment the blonde tried for putting his grubby little hand on her chest, she kicked the pointed toe of her boot into the center of his knee. He crumpled, quite agreeably, at her feet with a sharp yell. His partners made a move for her, grabbing her by the arms and slamming her against the wall, at around the same time a second yell arose – not from the blonde this time.

"Let 'er go, you bleedin' scoundrels!" it bellowed. Mrs. Lovett froze, her attackers whirling around in earnest haste. Hoping that the familiarity of that voice was only her imagination, the baker's hope was unceremoniously shattered when a shadow darted out to jump onto the shoulders of the blonde as he wobbled to his feet. Together, the fiend and her Tobi went tumbling back to the ground. She struggled mightily against the two at her sides in order to drag them apart, shouting in her own right.

"Tobi, what the devil are you doin'?! Stop that!" Mrs. Lovett gave a great heave to the man on her left, and he stumbled enough to give her the opportunity to kick the other; he lunged after her as she got a hold on Tobi's collar and pulled. "Run, you silly boy! What did you follow me for?!"

Giving her a small grin over his shoulder, he clocked his aggressor in the side of the head with such force that the man went limp. "Sorry, Mum; I'm a li'l busy at the moment!"

Slipping free of her grasp, her apprentice charged the man on her right. He didn't come up much past the man's elbow, but he somehow managed to bowl him into the wall and strike him in the stomach. The man on her left quickly recovered, however, and he stepped over the blonde in a completely mechanical motion to pick Tobi up off of his partner and hold him by his trousers and the hair on his head. Before Mrs. Lovett could even think about making a move, the one on her right trapped her against the wall with his own body weight, holding her there while Tobi struggled. This limited her mobility greatly, and frustrated her even more with her situation; she couldn't even lift a hand to scratch her nose! God forbid she develop an itch, or she might have to resort to kneeing certain people in the groin. Not that she couldn't have done so anyway, but there was a certain amount of pride involved in being able to scratch one's own nose – she wasn't going to be reduced to asking some lowly bugger off the street to do so for her.

"Tobi, love," she breathed, trying desperately to regain the air that was being flattened out of her. "I appreciate the effort – really, I do – but now just isn' the time. You're my li'l knight in shinin' armor, you are, but if you really wan' to 'elp your mum then you'll keep yourself safe an' get away from 'ere. Your mum's still got a strong arm; she can take care of 'erself."

It took almost everything she had in her to give him the smile that she did, feeling like she would rather scream at the heavens than stand there and grin as her son was lifted and thrown into the side of the building opposite herself. He rolled onto the ground with a small grunt, and she clamored to get away from her captor so as to give Tobi's aggressor what he deserved. Any whispered threats to the man pressing his weight against her went unheeded – more likely than not because they were not understood. When Tobi shuffled to his feet, the young Frenchman was ready for him; her apprentice let out a feral cry from his throat as he lunged himself at the man, but he was caught and slung around into the wall once more. This time, the Frenchman kicked him in the backside before he could gather his wits to stand, and he gave a tiny noise upon impact that wrenched at Eleanor's heart.

If the boy was smart, then he would go find someone who could help rather than putting his poor self in harm's way. Maybe then, the constabulary would be able to put these ruffians in their place, and Nellie could go on wondering why Sweeney had said what he had.

"I know, Mum," said her apprentice. A trail of blood made its way from his right nostril down to his upper lip, and he swiped at it with his sleeve. "Don' you worry. I'll be right back before they even touch you. Ain't nothin' gonna 'arm you, Mum – not while I'm around."

He smiled at her with that same confidence, his young gaze not darkened in the least by the events at hand. His bright smile lingered in her mind even after he'd disappeared around the corner, and she could only hope he was right. With the way the frenchman turned to look over her, slicking back his hair with an air of triumph and giving her a lewd eye, she couldn't be too sure.

The both of them together made sure that she didn't get away while they did their best to revive their companion, taking turns holding her down, but she'd be damned if any of them so much as laid a finger on her without sufficient punishment. They were amateurs, at best; she could tell by their movements. A heated debate quavered on their lips, passed between them in whispers as they nudged their friend and sent fleeting glances out to the street. They were almost quaking at the knees, by the looks of them. Obviously, they had not anticipated Tobi's arrival, and they certainly regretted his departure.

Her captors had sense enough not to run, leaving their companion on the ground, when the deed was already halfway committed. The looks on their faces were of scared dogs with their tails between their legs, and the baker found amusement in this. They probably had not acquired much experience in this sort of transgression, or much less any crime of similar proportion. She studied this as they went about slapping awareness into the man on the ground, having plenty of time to do so as they paid him more attention than herself. Having taken part in a few heinous crimes herself – namely, skinning the people her Sweeney decided to murder and baking them into pies – she diagnosed that they were altogether too jumpy. If an official were to show up, then it was as evident as the ground underfoot that they reeked of a guilty conscience.

The blonde, once he was steadily back on his feet with the aid of his friends, ultimately came to the conclusion that they should change location. She applauded him for reaching this verdict, having wondered herself why it was that at least one of them had not thought of it only moments after her apprentice had made his departure. The other two led her along by the arms – surely, they didn't need to grip so tightly; it wasn't as if she could get very far in the shoes she had the misfortune of wearing – while the cocky, blonde one directed them to another dark corner some distance away. It was not nearly far enough away on their part, but Eleanor did not complain.

As they had passed under a streetlamp, Nellie had felt a strong sense of realization wash over her and catch in her throat. The faces she had seen illuminated before her were faces that she had undoubtedly seen before; the familiarity wasn't something she could ignore. It brought a sick feeling to her stomach to find – as a small part of her mind clicked into place – that these were the same boys she'd witnessed at the market with Johanna, trying to pitch pebbles down the front of her dress.

The two at her elbows had jolted her along when she'd almost stopped, and it was these same two that held her fast to the side of another building as the blonde approached her. He seemed to be slightly more practiced than his fellow partners in crime, his expression arrogantly calm as he took her chin in his hand. Though she could not move her limbs to cause him physical harm through this means, the baker took pride in having the power to spit on him as he held her face – aiming it directly into his eye.

She felt a wicked smile creep up her lips as he backed away quite avidly, cursing in his own language and making a sound of disgust in the back of his throat. He clawed at his eye, still holding a hand to hit when he turned on her to glare. Hissing some command in French, the two at her sides obeyed him in some amount of respect or fear; though she hadn't believed it possible until that moment, their hold on her grew even tighter. She knew for sure that they were going to leave bruises where they restrained her, and did not consider it very good at all for her circulation to be cut off for an extended period of time.

Apprehension rose in her chest and grew like a vicious tick, sucking at her confidence as the man came at her again. This time, he was even harsher in his wrath, and he practically ripped at her dress to get it off. Fortunately, her dress gave him a little more trouble than he'd accounted for. He had the upper half jerked half-off of her left shoulder – a direction she could assure him that it was not fit to travel – and the lower part hiked all the way up to reveal her bloomers on the right side. At this point, Mrs. Lovett could say in almost absolute certainty that this man had never been married.

As much as she would have loved to comment on the matter, she knew that she would not have been understood. At any rate, his intrusive fingers silenced any attempt to vocalize her thoughts with a fairly painful scraping to a place where they most assuredly did not belong. Biting the inside of her mouth to keep form screaming at him, the baker tried with no avail to clamp her legs shut to his invasion. The men that held her back overpowered her immensely, and she was no match for their combined strength.

Giving up on her dress for the moment, the blonde brought his other rough hand to her chest and leaned into her. Trying vehemently to resist, she saw ample opportunity when he pressed his lips feverishly across her own. Nellie kept her lips sealed tighter than the vice on her arms and legs, not letting him in except to gain sweet retribution in the form of her teeth. She bit down on his lips as he tried to kiss her, and tasted the satisfactory metallic tinge of blood. He jumped back from her a second time, the red smearing his mouth giving him and even less attractive and more sinister appearance. Ripping a guttural growl from his throat, he was not above slapping her. With an even greater groan of frustration, he slammed her head into the wall behind her hard enough for lights to swim in her vision.

Subsequently, her knees buckled under her as the lights flashed a searing white, and she came to her senses with the man poised over her hungrily. He unbuttoned his trousers in angry haste, and she struggled again against the two men, trying to surmise just how she was going to get out of this. The baker felt her corset twist only minutely in quite the wrong direction, and feared that any movement that wasn't entirely strict would land her with a few broken ribs. He shoved himself upon her like an untamed beast, but his comrades' strength never faltered even when he forced her to the ground.

She felt for sure that she had sat in a puddle, but she also felt that she wasn't in much of a position to complain about it. The man tried again to pull off her dress, dislodging it even more and shifting it in an even worse position against her body. With the other two holding down her arms so that the sleeves were stuck, matters were not made much better. Aggravation and a fierce resistance rose up her throat as he lowered himself to bite at her exposed skin like some rabid wolf. It hurt, and not at all in the way that it was supposed to.

The scream she'd been holding back tore itself from her chest as he dug his grubby fingers deeper where they didn't belong, and it ripped her throat raw on its exit. "You take your bloody 'ands off 'a me, you bleedin', dastardly scum! Rot in 'ell, you 'ear?!"

All three of the men paused to stare at her, slightly astounded, until the blonde took it upon himself to laugh a little at something that escaped her completely. The other two followed suit, exchanging a few words as the man hovering before her continued in his efforts. Feeling a bit empty after the outburst, she was left to fester in ire and suffering as her aggressor proceeded to go about things all the wrong way. She was not going to give up – far from it – but needed a way to get the two men holding her down to release her, if only for a second. Eleanor considered spitting in their faces, too, but did not take this option after a moment of thought on how this course of action might end up.

By the time the blonde dragged his bleeding mouth even lower, she was in complete outrage. She kicked and wiggled, squirmed and even tried to bash her head into his – but their strength help up remarkably well. He only grinned, adamant about removing a few articles of clothing that she really wished he hadn't. His blood made a sickening trail from her neck to her cleavage, and the baker cringed both mentally and physically as he thrust into her. The whole situation was starting to make her head spin, and she didn't know how much longer she could last. The man over her gave a low noise worthy of earning her disgust, and she had to strain not to make a face. As far as his fervor went, she resolved to give him nothing, and lay there like a boneless fish as he tried quite uselessly to exploit her. If she could have crossed her arms, she would have.

These boys were in desperate need of learning an extremely essential lesson, indeed.

Apparently, her lack of movement frustrated the man. He gave her a look that could be translated into _any_ language, warning her that she had best give him what he wanted. Even then, Mrs. Lovett was set on her resolve. She remained inert as he moved against her, and consequently he bludgeoned her once more, this time with his fist. It made solid contact with her jaw, jarring her head into the cobblestones beneath her and knocking the senses right out of her. For half a second, the world turned over on her and went black. She could have sworn that she heard Mr. Todd's voice somewhere in the recesses of her mind, and she held onto that.

When her senses returned, Eleanor was fully disappointed to have to relinquish her oblivion, and the barber's voice. She groaned at the subtly developing ache at the back of her head, seeping into the rest of her brain and making it difficult to focus. For one, she didn't feel the weight of the blonde suspended over her, and this confused her. Perhaps he was preparing to strike her again? Holding her breath, she tensed against the blow. When after an interval of four blurry seconds it never came, she opened her eyes.

The blonde looked ready to be dreadfully sick, if not for the fact that his dong so was mildly compromised by his position. Sweeney Todd stood erect before the man looking more deadly than he ever had before, crushing the miscreant against a wall with a razor held precariously close to his throat, just under his adam's apple. The barber's lips were moving, but Nellie had difficulty discerning whether he was actually saying something or if they were simply trembling. The look on his face was one of absolute murderous intensity; she'd only seen it on him once before, and that was not a memory she welcomed.

The entire moment was detached in her mind, as if it didn't belong. She did not think to ask questions, or even feel relieved. As a matter of fact, the baker was unsure of what she felt at all. It was not curiosity, anticipation, fear, relief, or any of the emotions she would normally associate with the situation. Moreover, the sensation reminded her most of something like trying to wake up, just coming out of the haze of sleep and not sure what to make of anything yet. She was at a loss completely, lying on the ground only a few paces away from where Tobi threw rocks at the running backs of the two frenchmen who had priorly held her in place.

Nellie saw the barber hiss something at her molester, his face portraying the amount of venom in his words. Whatever he was saying, it became gradually louder until he was all but shouting in hysterics, his blade nicking at the boy's neck. She tuned out most of the commotion, finding it all very sharp to her pounding head, but couldn't miss certain details such as the frenchman's cry of the thick splatters that met the ground in waves of red droplets. Some of the warm liquid made it to her face as well, and it was this that she wiped off with the back of a hand. In a way, she felt sorry for the boy – but her sympathies only went so far. She knew she should have been disgusted, but somehow, she could only feel the thick haze of shock and the small tingle of relief.

For someone who made a living out of slaughtering men and cooking them up to be served to the rest of London, disgust was not likely to be much of an issue.

After the blurriness started to fade, there was anger. It flared up quick and hot within her system, and overruled any sense of gratitude she felt towards her fiendish would-be murderer. After a lifetime of acquiescing to his every wish and putting him first, she was right ready to take his own razor to his callous, brutish throat and tell him exactly what she thought. How _dare_ he come back to rescue her like some prince in disguise, as if he'd ever truly cared. How _dare_ he act angry, as if he had anything to be angry about.

How_ dare_ he murder in such a cold, gruesome way right in front of her son!

Tobi looked to be stretched a little thin and more than a little scared, but other than a few distasteful glances he paid the scene little to no mind. He was paler than she'd seen him in all her life, but she could attest that to having gotten into the middle of all this in the first place. She felt a substantial amount of guilt for that, being the one who introduced him to this mess by taking him in, but she assuaged herself with the logic that he'd probably be worse off where he came from. Instead of bothering himself over Mr. Todd's brash deeds, he stayed closer to Mrs. Lovett's side, asking her if there was anything he could do for her.

As much as she wished she could have answered, words escaped her. She tried not to look at Sweeney's handiwork – tried not to look at much of anything, really – and to focus on getting her emotions in-check. There was no point in wasting energy with being irate after such an ordeal; later would be a more appropriate time for her challenging the barber.

Mr. Todd himself looked as if he couldn't believe most of what had just happened. His face was a mixture of a confused gaping and a blank stare, but his eyes gave away the dark emotions swimming in them with unexpected ease. He paced past her multiple times, back and forth, seemingly unaware of his present surroundings. She watched him in this endeavor, not stopping even once, in something close to fascination. When he suddenly swiveled on his heel to stalk towards her, she didn't bat an eyelash.

"Mrs. Lovett," he addressed her. He was stopped just before her, towering over her, staring her down. The intensity of his gaze was unfounded, and she struggled not to blink.

"Mr. Todd," she shot back tersely.

He looked to be on the edge of some sort of precipice; torn between something. His gaze was not unfeeling, but there was a certain question there that appeared to be directed inwards toward himself. Even as he met her eye in a locked stare, he didn't give her his full attention. Moments passed as he did naught but stand there and look at her, until he at last opened his mouth in a query.

"You are…unharmed?" His tone was less than desired, but the sentiment was there. Unfortunately, it only worked to fuel her fury.

Wordlessly, she nodded. He took this in with complete composure, the only sign that he may not have been as calm on the inside being that he'd sliced the frenchman into an unrecognizable, bloody mass and was still gripping the razor in his hand tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

With a set jaw, he gave a curt nod to Tobi, who helped Mrs. Lovett to her feet. She stared at Sweeney's back as he turned away from her, as if it would change anything, and jerked her dress back into place. At this point, it was useless to try to dust herself off or fix her hair. She followed the barber's lead through the dimly lit streets, not caring if he knew where he was going or not. Almost every bone in her body was radiating with pulsing agony, but she ignored it and drove herself on, Tobi hanging off of her elbow in all insistence to help.

Sweeney, always five paces ahead, never paused to look back. He strode quickly and pointedly, choosing to ignore her suffering. She had the feeling that if she hadn't been able to keep up, then he would have left her. Only out of sheer sense, she strained herself enough to keep to his heels. Determined not to show her weakness, the baker brushed off every sign telling her she should stop and instead pushed herself farther. If only for Tobi's sake, she refrained from turning the man around and saying her piece of mind.

All the way back to the familiar library building, he didn't say a word. Eleanor couldn't decide whether this satisfied or pained her, and so she chose to keep to herself as well. As angry as she was, it would do no good. The moment they came in the door, Sweeney stormed his way around the corner in a shameful haste.

He was able to get away with this motion only because both Johanna and Anthony, directly following his departure, rushed forward to bombard both herself and Tobi with attention. Confined by the girl's voluminous embrace and the sailor's inquisition, she could only look on as Mr. Todd made himself scarce. Knowing that whatever he had gotten into his head was going to take a considerable amount of time spent brooding and pacing, she was willing to let him alone for it and indulge in the sympathies of Anthony and Johanna.

The librarian rushed into the room upon hearing the commotion, somehow convinced that it was Sweeney who had done the baker wrong. It took a great deal of convincing before they could get her to understand that it was Mr. Todd who had in part saved her, and even then they had to drag her away from the task of finding and swatting the barber with a broomstick. After they had her settled down, Mrs. Lovett was made to recall the details of the event up until she was found by Tobi, who informed her of his own side of the story. From this, she found that he had followed then out from the library upon their primary exit, having not trusted Sweeney. Though she knew she had every right to be at odds with him over this facet, she was much too busy avoiding relaying certain details in particular and trying not to let her furiosity at the barber get the best of her.

Nellie was supplied by the librarian with a great many quilts – because, apparently, her warmth played a role in her overall relief, and she had been incontrovertibly freezing after so much hot exertion – and a cup of tea where she sat with the others by the fire. They had absolutely insisted on not leaving her alone for even the smallest amount of time, even after the librarian herself had already retired. Instead, they sat all but dozing in her company as she stared into the flames, dwelling on events passed. Johanna was the only one who was not nearing sleep, sitting directly adjacent from the baker and looking at her lap.

"Nellie…?" the girl said quietly, using the name Eleanor had urged her to utilize many weeks prior. She reached out in a timid motion to grasp the baker's hand in hers, staring through her with her father's gaze.

"Yes, dear?" If this was going to be one more remark of solace, Mrs. Lovett felt she might keel over. Though Johanna, she knew, was not as thick as all that.

The girl stared a bit more before responding, averting her gaze and frowning. "Mr. Todd, my father – he…what did he say to you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Mrs. Lovett sipped at her tea as she considered this, fingering the rim of her mug and sighing. "Well…I s'pose I don't. 'E's a right blunt man, you ought to know – doesn' bother with the pleasantries of conversation like you an' I. Most of the time, 'e's off in 'is own li'l world, there, broodin' on Lord knows what. 'E said to me some very 'urtful things, but it's not anythin' I couldn' take. I'd wager it's a li'l my own fault, even, for the way I am to 'im sometimes."

"…but what did he say?"

"Oh, nothin' much, dear – jus' told me the way things are, is all. Nothin' I didn' already know." She offered a smile that Mr. Todd's daughter did not reciprocate, and saw a look very similar to her father's cross her face that profoundly indicated that she was in the process of thinking rather hard.

"And…" Johanna paused, wetting her lips to begin again. "How are things, exactly?"

"Well, I'd say they were blasted awful. …but tha's not for you to worry 'bout, love. 'E's better to me than I deserve, I'll put it that way – an' tha's all I can 'ope for."

Johanna nodded slightly, looking now at the rug. "…but you aren't satisfied."

She took a moment to reflect on this. After all that had happened, she couldn't disagree. "No…I s'pose not. You win some an' you lose some, eh? I care for 'im too bloody much, I guess."

"You love him…don't you, Ma'am?"

Of all the things the girl could have said, this surprised her the most. There was no denying it, of course – she'd confessed it to herself too many times to count and professed it outright on many occasions. It was the subtle perceptive nature of Sweeney's daughter that stunned her: how the girl could have picked up on so much from so little. While Johanna looked on in a curious sort of polite challenge, the baker could only raise her eyebrows in question.

"Call me Nellie, dear," she reminded for the umpteenth time. The girl muttered a quick apology on the matter, and the baker gazed back at her before answering, sharp and quickly. "How d'you figure?"

It was Johanna's turn to look baffled. "I…Well, it's more like the way you act about him, Ma'am – Nellie. Sorry. Whenever you speak of him, it's as if you're speaking about the whole word – God's green earth. Even if you're saying something bad, it still comes across as…extremely important, or…affectionate. Even the way you look at him – it's different than the way you look at everyone else. I mean to say… Oh, I'm not very good at this sort of thing, am I?"

"There's room for improvement, love. I daresay it doesn' seem very likely to love the man who tried to throw me into a burnin' 'ot oven, though. You're going to 'ave to do better than that, if you want to convince anyone."

"I don't think I have to. Pardon my saying, but you seem terribly attached to him. It's not a day that goes by that you aren't with my father, and…you stayed with him, when…when no one else would. Even when he looks like he doesn't care…you never give up. I admire that about you, Ma'am."

Rolling her eyes at the girl's habit of formality, Eleanor gave a slight shrug and felt her lips pull into a small smile. "Why, thank you, dearie. I don' know many that would admire an ol' biddy like myself, 'avin' 'elped murder folks an' what not. Can' say it speaks well. …but I give up; you're too sharp for me." Here, she winked. "You're quite the lady, Miss Johanna. If you must know…I love 'im. I 'ave since the day I met the bloke. There you 'ave it."

Mr. Todd's daughter gave a quick nod as if to say "I thought so" and continued to look down at her feet. She did not say anything directly following Nellie's confession, and Eleanor did not care to say much more herself. Therefore, they sat in silence for a few moments longer with the only sound being the popping sound of the fire and Anthony's soft snoring as he sat slumped in his chair across from it. The silence gave an instant for thought; that which Mrs. Lovett was strictly sick of. Sitting in the same place for hours on end gave plenty of time for her to come to the conclusion that almost every train of thought she held went down the same path. She was not partial to talking either, though, because each conversation held also went along the same pattern. In this case, there was no good option, and so she was forced to be content with trying to think up ways to distract herself: such as counting the number of green books on the shelf closest to her and counting the seconds between each of the sailor's snores.

It was after this moment that Johanna proceeded to say something which astounded her a second time.

"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I don't think I would mind it if you were to be my mother. In fact, I think I would very much like it." Smiling a little at the carpet, she consciously pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Whenever you're around, my father isn't so very intimidating as he usually is. Just talking to him is a little daunting, but…I feel as if I know him a little better, when he's around you. He _is_ different around you, you know. And…I feel as if I've known _you_ my whole life, Nellie."

This was all the incentive she needed to drag the girl into a tearful hug, thanking her from over her shoulder. It was more than she ever could have asked for, and it left a grateful ache that was more sorrowful than glad. She didn't blame this on Johanna; the girl was very sweet, she thought. Mr. Todd would more likely than not object to the notion entirely. He did not want to marry her; he had already made that quite clear under the bridge. Mrs. Lovett was more than willing, even so; she would very much like to have Johanna as a daughter, too. The girl had spent more than enough time as it was without a clear parental figure, and she would hardly consider Turpin anything close. Sweeney tried, as well, but Mrs. Lovett could tell that he was not used to it.

There were too many years separating them, and he was unused to the affairs of teenaged girls. Because of this, the only thing he had perfected was the overprotective nature. Even the adoration was a little off; it was hard to say he adored the girl when he didn't even know _what_ he adored. Really, it was a sad case, but Eleanor was all too eager. She knew that Johanna would accept her father no matter what he had become, because she already had. Cultivating the relationship was all there was to be done, but it was easier said. The barber did not know how to make the correct responses to the things his daughter said, and it was a very long time indeed since he had tried to be gentle with anyone. It was slow and awkward, as was to be expected, but Eleanor was proud of his attempts. She was sure that, in time, they would be just as close as any other father and daughter.

They had spent the rest of the day and most of the night sitting around the fire, and Nellie was relieved when Johanna suggested that they all go up and try to sleep. Carefully, she roused Tobi from his peaceful sleep lying just next to her, and smiled at him when he looked blearily up to her. Johanna did much the same with her sailor, and as they all trudged up the staircase the baker couldn't help but wonder where Mr. Todd had gone off to. He was not within the confines of their small attic room when they reached it, and Mrs. Lovett was not sure whether to be relieved or worried. Now that some of the anger had worn off, she could see the sense in avoiding confrontation with the barber completely, but she fretted over where he might have gone. It was a troubling thought for him to be out on the streets alone at night, even if she knew good and well that he was more likely to murder the first human being that he came across than be murdered himself.

He _was_ coming back, wasn't he? He hadn't touched any of his things, not that there were many, and it wasn't like him to simply walk off and never return. It wasn't very reasonable at all, especially since his daughter was still here and he really did not have anywhere else to go. She cringed at the thought of him wondering around in some dank, poorly cared for area, or sleeping on the cold, wet ground.

The notion was enough to keep her awake, even after everyone else was already soundly asleep. Even though her body was physically begging for rest, her mind would not allow it. When she thought about it, it may have been better this way. Considering her nightmares, she definitely did not under any circumstance look forward to a recurrence. It was more than likely that it would come back to haunt her again, after the previous events.

If only to escape this recurrence and to exercise her wary mind, Eleanor stood up her aching bones and carefully made her way back down into the heart of the library. Here, she planned to pick out a good, English book and read all the way until the sun came up. Despite the association, the baker knew that it wouldn't bother her as much as soon as she delved into the fictional problems of someone else.

Once she had found the novel that interested her most – a nice, good romance set on a farm somewhere in the New World – she took it to a table in the farthest corner of the library and prepared herself for a long night. It was only when she looked up from the cover of her newfound book, getting ready to set it down on the table, that she realized that where she planned to sit was already occupied.

All at once, the room was closing in on her. Her breath came short as she felt herself approach Mr. Todd, stepping closer to the table and setting her novel of choice on its edge. He was hunched over onto the table with his arms over an open book and his head in his arms. Though he looked to be asleep, she couldn't be sure. Frozen in her place, she scarce could breathe as she stood motionless for almost an eternity before she finally decided that he was, in fact, asleep.

At last, she let out the breath she'd been keeping hostage to relax her posture and stand over him. Now that there was no threat of confrontation – and he wasn't out wandering the streets – she felt almost as if nothing had changed, standing next to him. Knowing that it would be wise to leave him be, temptation won out over common sense. Disregarding the warnings in her mind, she reached across the thick distance separating them to trail her fingers lightly down his spine, relishing the innocuous touch and the almost forbidden feel to it. He didn't stir, and so the baker became bold enough to attempt to run a hand through his unruly hair. It seemed a glorious feat to be able to drag her fingers through it, as marvelously soft as it was, without his noticing. She smiled as she tickled down the nape of his neck, and he drew in a labored breath. When she followed the curve of hi sear with the tip of a finger, he moved to wearily swat her hand away. At this, she froze in place for another time, and watched with a growing sense of horror as he sat up and groaned, rubbing the back of his neck.

His composure returned in increments, at which point he turned around to give her a tired stare. This morphed into a more acute look as the sleep left him, and he did not blink for as long as it took her to remember to breathe once again. When she swallowed, she found her throat uncomfortably dry.

"Eleanor," he acknowledged, sounding oddly hoarse. The use of her first name struck her as strange.

She took a deep breath. "Mr. Todd…"

Nodding stiffly, he gestured to the chair next to him for her to sit. She did, trying stubbornly not to meet his eye again. In doing so, she noticed the book he'd been attempting to read: the same one he'd been reading to her just the other night. Knowing how much romance novels sickened him, she was thoroughly at a loss as to his motive. When she chanced a small look up to him, he was still looking at her. This caught her gaze, and she locked him in yet another staring contest until he decided to speak, much to her surprise.

"What are you doing here?"

The question was straightforward, but the baker still had difficulty in forcing out an answer. "Couldn' sleep," she said truthfully. "I thought I'd jus' come down 'ere an' read for a shake, but… Well, 'ere you are."

He made a small noise in assent, relieving her of his stare to watch disinterestedly the space in front of him. She could tell that the wheels were turning in his mind, his expression giving almost nothing away, and Eleanor discovered it to be hard to remember why she'd been so angry, before.

"Tobi came to find me after he witnessed what those…_barbarians_ were doing to you," he offered. "He's the one who saved your peace; you should thank him."

"'E told me," Mrs. Lovett said blandly, "an' I did. I don' know why you'd expect me to thank _you_, anyway."

"I don't." He scowled, fingering the blade at his hip. "You are precisely right; you shouldn't."

"Good."

There was a tension that she couldn't place holding the air around them stagnant, and she felt her stomach twist into a knot the more she sat still. It made her uneasy to be in his presence, for once having nothing to say. He was in no mood for chitchat, and neither was she. Doubtless, it had been a mistake to come down here. The night was almost over, and so she might have had some luck in sleeping if only for a few hours.

The barber moved to stop her when she made to get up, laying a gentle hand on her wrist and looking up at her with imploring sincerity.

"Wait," he said softy. It only because of his tone and that delicate touch, she obeyed. She forced herself to sit back down, and he only slowly took his hand away. "Eleanor…I didn't mean for any of this to occur, when I said what I did. If I had known –"

"What, you wouldn' 'ave said it? You couldn' possibly 'ave known! You said what you meant, an' tha's all there is."

"I wasn't finished. True, I meant what I said…but I didn't know that what I meant was not what I wanted. What I wanted to mean… What happened to you was the result of my bad judgment. You were hurt because of it, both mentally and physically."

He kept his eyes on the empty space, but she gaped at him wholeheartedly. Feeling a smirk start to creep up at the corners of her lips, the baker arched an eyebrow at him.

"Sweeney Todd…are you tryin' to apologize to me?"

One side of his mouth twitched upwards at her comment, and he chanced to give her a fleeting look. "I might be."

She felt herself grin almost flat-out, trying with growing modesty to hide it behind a hand. The baker knew full well that it was just another reason for her to be angry with him and his contradictions, but could not bring herself to feel that same sense of ire when the man across from her was sporting such a rare smile in the lines of his expression. It may not have been visible to anyone else, but she saw it as clear as day.

A slight dizziness overtook her in the wave of feeling, and she knew this to be relief. It was powerful enough to induce mild giddiness that bubbled in her chest, and yet she had no idea as to why she was alleviated so. She might have laughed, had she not felt that this was inappropriate and unfitting to the circumstance.

Beside her, the barber made no movement to say more. Although she could tell he did, in fact, mean what he said – however much he didn't mean what he'd said last time – she did not, perhaps out of her own stubbornness, forgive him just yet. It was apparent that he put a lot of effort into forming such an apology, but effort did not, in this case, get the point across as strong as she might like. Instead of pushing the matter, Mrs. Lovett decided to ignore his statement for a momentary tranquility. She gave him a warm, still flustered smile and leaned into his precious space to press a light kiss on the upper portion of his cheek.

He stilled, between tense and content.

"Thank you, love," she breathed.

He nodded curtly, placing a remarkable arm across her shoulders and curling his fingers around her left. Though he did not look at her, she saw him watching her from the corner of his eye. With a skillfully steady hand, Mr. Todd picked back the cover of the book in front of him and artfully smoothed the pages.

"You're welcome," he said, the words sounding foreign. After a deep breath, he began to read.


	14. Second Chance for One Last Dance

A/N: Hi! Ok, so it seems I'm always apologizing for missing my invisible deadline, but...I have a legitimate excuse, I swear! Sorry for the delay in this, 'cause my internet security thinks that this website is a bad place....it likes to block it. . You can't blame me for the lateness...well, some of it you can. You can thank my amazing friend for letting me upload this on her computer, where her internet is happy and block-free. Major 'thank you's to all who read, and especially those who take the time to favorite or review. You guys rock! Seriously. As much as us writers love to write just for the heck of it, it's awesome to have readers and reviewers along for the ride. You guys really do make it worth the while, and make us feel a little bit more sane that all this isn't just in our heads. Also, I hope that the ending isn't a bit much...I tried not to lay it on too thick. A huge merci beaucoup goes to all who endure my developing 'cockney' accent. I know I didn't add it in the first half...and I didn't plan on doing it, either, for continuity's sake. But I couldn't resist, so here I am. And, last but not least, a GINORMOUS thanks to everyone who got through this gigantor author's note. Cheers!!  


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They moved to a quaint shop on the rue de Lille with the money Anthony had acquired through various jobs. It wasn't quite the sea, but he could tell that Mrs. Lovett loved it all the same with how close it was to the river. The front was open to the street, cramped in-between two other buildings, and it had stairs on the inside that led down instead of up. In the lower part, they sanctioned out the two rooms each to Anthony and Johanna, and Mr. Todd and Mrs. Lovett. In the upper half, Eleanor opened up a patisserie. While she and Johanna were busy about the kitchen and Tobi took care of the customers' needs, he and Anthony were made to clean and fetch things. She was raking in a profit before he could even think to complain.

When Nellie told him over the dishes that the sailor had finally proposed, he had been furious. The mixed feelings over the matter were that he naturally wanted to see his daughter through on her wedding day. Mrs. Lovett suggested that his reaction was uncalled for, because the choice was entirely up to Johanna. 'Was he not going to support his daughter?' she had asked him. After that, he couldn't refuse.

"Oh, 's not all that bad," the baker crooned at him as he stood with a tailor bending over him with a measure. "There won' be too many people: only the gentlemen the boy knows from 'is work an' 'is crew, an' a few 'a the girls I know. Of course, whoever Johanna wants to bring…an' Tobias. That can' be very many. Besides, you'd only be there for appearances. Just walk 'er down the aisle an' sit there. …an'…_try_ not to look like you're goin' to kill anyone. This _is_ 'er weddin', after all."

He only nodded. The whole ordeal was ludicrous to him, and he didn't share the buzz of excitement that charged the air through the comings weeks. Everyone around him was chirping and humming, and not even Tobi's dropping the first chocolate cake all over the floor with an ugly splat could upset the mood. Anthony and Johanna had eyes only for each other, and as much as Mrs. Lovett encouraged it was as much as Sweeney and Tobi were made to pick up their slack.

Before the wedding, Eleanor left him alone to fend for himself at Anthony's side, going off herself with Johanna to do "things of a feminine nature that he wouldn't appreciate." He was of a mind to say that he didn't appreciate being left alone with the bloke he was expected to call son, either. Though Mrs. Lovett assured him that it was a wonderful way to get to know the lad, the barber had other ideas in mind.

They sat at a quite table in a bustling tavern, Sweeney attempting to tone out the never-ending flow of words that poured from the sailor's mouth. For once, he knew he'd found someone who was worse than Nellie. In the least, Eleanor knew how to sound intelligent. Did the boy even breathe? He wouldn't be surprised if Anthony talked himself purple in the face. Downing another shot, he eyed the untouched drink that sat unmoving before the sailor.

The barber knew then without a doubt that Mrs. Lovett's company was infinitely preferable to Anthony's. As much as Mr. Todd was fond of his daughter, he certainly wasn't interested in hearing about every eyelash and freckle that she possessed. If the sailor had some diversity to his inundation then it might have been tolerably manageable, but as if was the barber was ready to clamp his hands over his ears and tell the boy to shut up. Usually, he was better at blocking out the noise of the tavern, but Anthony _just wouldn't stop talking_. Most of what the boy was saying he already knew, anyway.

"…oh, and then she just gave me that _look_, Sir; I'm sure you know what I mean," gushed Anthony. "That is…how could I refuse? I'd do anything to make her happy: _anything_. …and what's more, I know she feels the same way. I know it now more than ever. Ours wasn't quite the most conventional start, but…I suppose we had to start somewhere." Finally picking up the glass before him, the sailor brought it to his lips, but did not drink. Pleasantly, he sighed. "It's…grand. I haven't felt the like ever in my life. You must understand. You've been in love, haven't you, Mr. Todd?"

He slammed his glass back onto the table and heard a faint crack. Trying not to choke as the flame made its way down in somewhat the wrong direction, Sweeney ground together his teeth as he felt his stomach turn over. Keeping a tight grip on the tiny glass and on the edge of his seat, the barber didn't need to look up at his almost-son-in-law to know that his reaction had shocked him. The silence alone said enough. The barber let his breath in through his nose, drawing in a deep, long draught of it in the process of turning over the sailor's question.

_You've been in love, haven't you, Mr. Todd?_

"Mr. Todd…?"

_Mr. Todd…_

Allowing himself to close his eyes, he tried to drown out the noise around him. Had he been in love? Had _he_? Images of Lucy flickered behind his closed lids, but they no longer held the same feeling. There was no warmth, no desperation, not even sadness. They were simply _there_, cold and unfeeling as his razors. Memories. _Thoughts_. They belonged to another lifetime; they were not his.

Eleanor, too, crossed his mind. These images were recent and tangible, but edged with grey. Something deeper than he cared to look likened a glimpse of feeling to them: an echo of something long forgotten. Tobias had once asked him a similar query: whether or not he liked Mrs. Lovett. Then, he had not known how to answer it. Now, it was no different.

This confusion, this not knowing himself, was liable to anger him. There had always been constants, with only one directive. Eleanor herself was a constant. Ever since the Judge's death, his life had been a mass of uncertainty with flawed and looping logic. Was there a point to living, except to exist? Mrs. Lovett and Johanna were the only things that kept him grounded. It was astounding, really.

Had he been in love before? Did he like Nellie?

Letting a hiss out through his teeth, the barber relaxed his grip and wetted his lips to answer: "Yes." It was a simple answer, and the one that Anthony wanted to hear. It did not require any explanation, as the lad was bound to make his own assumptions.

Something else, however, cropped up at his admittance, so subtle that he wasn't sure if it was all there. It might have been the alcohol, but it liked the fact that he'd said yes. How odd.

Anthony faltered for a moment over what to say, but then decided to persist with his long-winded speech as if there had been no interruption. When the boy finally swallowed his drink, Sweeney was sure that it was an accomplishment. He might have been nice enough to remind the boy to drink what he'd paid for, except he didn't fancy dragging a drooling sailor out by his collar at the end of the night.

As he stepped out of the carriage coach with both Tobi and Anthony at his heels, Mr. Todd scanned the curdled crowd just outside the church – for there was, indeed, a crowd. Not finding what he was looking for, the barber then switched tactics to get a good view of where he was going to be for the next few hours. It was smaller than he liked, especially considering the mess of humanity gathered around both inside and out. Eleanor had definitely _not_ mentioned this many people. Hadn't they _just_ moved here?

If these were all of Mrs. Lovett's newfound chums, then he must have seriously underestimated her charisma. He'd known she was bubbly, but the amount of people surrounding him spoke of something different. Once or twice he picked out a red mane of curls, but it always turned out to be someone else. Indifferently, he decided that she must have been with Johanna.

They waded through stiffly, constricted by their fancy attire and suffocating from the multitude. Perhaps there were not as many people as Sweeney imagined, since he did find crowds distinctly revolting. Most of the time he took to avoiding them at all costs, but there were those select few times in London when Nellie had convinced him to be dragged off to the market. From memory, he was able to discern that this crowd did smell minutely better than that one. Nevertheless, he did not take the time to count to find out if it was his imagination.

By the time they made it inside, the barber found himself starting to sweat underneath his layers. As the bridegroom was distracted by the task of fixing Tobi's bowtie – which vehemently refused to lie straight – he took the opportunity to disappear into the horde of guests. Doubtless, they could go on without him, and he much preferred to be rid of them.

Positioning himself away from most of the droves, Mr. Todd stood alone and in wait. Taking the time to listen in on a few of the closest conversations, he could tell that a lot of the attending party was customers of the baker's. Of course, he'd guessed as much. There was a sprinkling of both French and English, leading the barber also to recognize and admire how much of the language Mrs. Lovett seemed to have picked up since they had come here. Even Anthony and Johanna had acquired a firm grasp, Tobias knowing just as much if not more than Nellie, and this left Sweeney quite in the dark on the matter. He was alone in having not ascertained even a single word, and it came as an impediment now as he tried to distinguish the chatter around him.

There was a static excitement that passed through the entire attendance, and it was starting to contaminate the barber as well. He had not yet seen his daughter, and wondered what she might look like. As he ran over the possibilities, he became more and more certain that she would look almost exactly like an angel. The prospect left him a little impatient, not liking the idea of having to wait. He'd been waiting for everything almost all his life, and his patience was wearing thin.

It was also a sense of resentment that hit him, for not having overseen his daughter's childhood. The feeling was a helpless one, knowing he could have done nothing, and it left him both glad that Turpin had been disposed of and frustrated with himself. Fifteen years wasted, and now his little girl was nearly an adult getting married to the man she loved. All he had to show for it were a few baby pictures and past reassurances from Eleanor that it had turned out alright.

Still, these were fifteen years he could never get back. Even if Lucy meant nothing, his daughter was very much alive, and there was an entire chunk missing from their relationship. He would never get to witness the first words she would speak – which Mrs. Lovett told him happened to be "no" – or read her stories at night. So many stages of getting to know each other had been destroyed, so many firsts deprived, and he felt less like a father and more like an intruder.

Pondering these things, he failed to notice the baker when she swept around the corner just by his left shoulder. Not given enough warning, he also failed to stop her from bumping straight into him and dropping the bundled heap of paper in her arms. She gasped, letting slip a number of curses at the mess of paper at her feet, and looked up to him with an apology on her lips. Sweeney felt himself only rocked a bit, more surprised than annoyed. The words died in her throat as recognition flitted across her face, and he was cognizant of a light tint to her cheeks as she blinked across to him.

"Oh…Sweeney, love…I didn' expect you to be standin' 'ere." Her obvious statement rang out awkwardly, and fell muted on his ears.

He could only stare as he took in her full appearance, his eyes glued to her as if nothing else in the room existed. To him in that moment, it would not have mattered if nothing else did. For the first time since he could remember, her hair hung about her neck and shoulders in neatly fastened curls that glistened and bounced with a natural tone of radiance. Her make-up was gentle and precise, not smudged or nonexistent as he was used to seeing it, and every portion of her dress accented what he knew was beauty. The dress was plain and respectable, offset with soft green and black hues, and came down to sweep the floor with a few frills.

She was, in a word, gorgeous.

The barber could almost feel himself shrink in comparison. She filled his vision entirely, meeting his dead stare with an inquisitive one. The word "what?" seemed to radiate from her gaze, but he was incapable of voicing an answer. Any answer would have been inadequate; there were no words in any language in the entire world fir for this kind of description.

He could not identify the feeling that rose up in his chest to stop up his throat. The wall might have been the only thing that kept him standing upright; he felt that a simple breeze might have knocked him over. It was familiar and unexperienced all at the same time, confusion running rampant alongside awe. What was this, keeping him struggling for breath? A glint of panic shot up his nerves; what _was_ it?

"Mr. T…" Eleanor breathed, "Why're you lookin' at me like that?" Self-consciously, she combed her fingers through her hair.

He didn't honestly have an answer for her. At any rate, his vocals weren't cooperating. The sensation was something proud, touching on things he'd not felt in such a long time that it took a tremendous amount of willpower not to shudder at it. He was overcome by the sudden urge to make that beauty _his_, to be close to her, to kiss her. It took everything he had and more to disregard that demand and keep his distance.

Without tearing his eyes away from her, he shook his head and shrugged.

The tint of her cheeks darkened, but she sighed. "Alright, well, you don' look 'alf bad, love. I do wish you'd fix this, though." At the indication, she stepped to him to straighten his perfectly straight collar and fiddle with his apparel to her liking.

With her hands brushing up across his neck, he had to clench his jaw not to snake an arm around her waist and keep her there.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I can' stay an' chat, 'm afraid," she said. "I 'ave to deliver this guest list so all these poor people can 'ave a seat, an' then I 'ave to get back to li'l Johanna. She looks wondrous, by the way. I'll see you up near the altar, love."

He felt himself nod, but he was loathe to watch her go. Hopping up to peck his cheek as per her usual custom, she then stooped to gather up the guest list and hurry off with a third of the long paper trailing behind her. Sweeney watched her even after all he could see was the movement of the crowd's parting, and felt his cheek where she'd kissed him start to tingle. Now he _knew_ there were a lot of people.

Later, he found that Mrs. Lovett had been very right; Johanna looked exquisite. Her dress did indeed make her look like an angel, and as Mr. Todd walked her down the aisle he felt the eyes of every person turn to them. Most were peering directly at the bride – he saw Anthony's gaze light up like a beacon – but he also felt one pair of eyes in particular on him exclusively, and he matched that stare. From across the room, Eleanor winked as she offered a small smile. Even from his distance, he could see the liquid welling up in those eyes. Subtly, he nodded back to her in acknowledgment.

When he made it to where she sat and took his place at her side, there were tears rolling down her cheeks. She glanced to him and gave him a mournful grin, breathing uneven as she watched the exchange of vows. He felt a stab of mixed feelings, both over Eleanor's distress and Johanna's marriage. The barber knew that Nellie was happy and even reciprocated some of that feeling, but the emotion on her face was unsettling to him. He troubled over how to relieve it, reaching across to slip his hand over hers in the hope that it might help.

Unfortunately, it had opposite the desired result. Her face contorted into an even broader smile as she shook to contain her joyful sobs, her eyes glassy and red. She bit her lip as she looked to him, her fingers constricting over his own and squeezing hard as her other hand came up to conceal her mouth. When it was over, he allowed her to collapse into him, crying silently as she beamed into his shoulder. He looked on towards the departing couple, feeling something tighten in his chest, and held enough reserve to lace a delicate arm around her waist and keep her there.

The wedding supper was held at the church itself, so many people not being able to condense into one small pastry shop. Eleanor sat at his side, the light of the conversation. He found he did not like sitting among so many people, all of whom were much too friendly for his liking. Alcohol aided them in becoming increasingly bothersome, and when the subject of discussion turned expectantly towards himself he felt trapped by the situation. Not knowing what to say to their expectation, the barber held an immense amount of gratitude for Nellie when she successfully warded off their questions with explanations of her own.

As it came to dancing, Anthony led Johanna into the first. Many other couples soon followed suit, and Mr. Todd was left to sit awkwardly across from the baker watching them. She shot glances to him every now and then, a bit longingly, and shifted in her seat as she tried to look distracted. These signals were not lost to him; Sweeney knew what she wanted, but was unsure of how to go about accomplishing this. Obviously, she was not happy with his decision to remain silent and unmoving; Eleanor appeared to be rather annoyed, in fact. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, folded her arms, and sighed almost a dozen times.

Didn't she understand just how many people there were out there?

Crowds were bothersome, clumsy things: horrible for dancing. The last time he'd even attempted such a tactic had been years before, at the parties Lucy had begged him to attend. Even then, he hadn't considered it a very good idea.

Waltzing around in empty bakehouses and tripping over feet in flocks of people were two completely different animals; least of which, he didn't understand why Mrs. Lovett was so keen on the idea when the last two times they had performed it he had been leading her to her death. Was she such a martyr? It came as a shock to him that she even still preferred to be in his company after their exchange under the bridge.

Since then, even with his half-formed apology, there had been certain changes between them. She was quick to snap at him if she so wished, and even more reserved. Although her demeanor did not really outwardly change towards him, he could sense then underlying tension. She did not speak her mind as freely, given more to useless babble than to personal conversing. He did not like this apprehension. Neither did he know how to alleviate it, but the strange new way in which she regarded him gave him and even harder time than expected.

He was losing her, all because he didn't know how to put together a sentence.

More than ever, he was frustrated with himself. He couldn't deny that he found her beautiful; the attraction was simply too strong. When it came to affection, the barber was unsure. She asked too much of him, trying his better judgment with that dress and those eyes. With these sensations, it was ridiculous to watch her suffer just because he didn't like people.

No matter what he did, he always seemed to find a way to torment her.

When Tobi cut in to dance with the bride, feet shuffling in cumbersome gracelessness, Anthony sat himself next to Mr. Todd in doe-eyed silence. The barber himself leant on the table in frustration bordering on ennui, wondering how to go about his dilemma. Nellie smiled at the boy as if nothing was wrong, but Sweeney knew that look all too well.

"So 'ow does it feel to be married, dear?" Mrs. Lovett asked lightly.

The sailor brightened up with a hazy smile, gazing back at Johanna like he couldn't take his eyes off of her. Mrs. Lovett's words appeared to have passed right over him for as long as they awaited his reply, but at last he opened his lips in timid response. "I can't even believe it. It just seems so impossible, for someone like her to be…mine."

Following the word "mine," Sweeney's eyes snapped up to Anthony in a glare. However harmlessly spoken, the possessiveness of that word flickered a warning on in the barber's mind. He fought the impulse to stand up and demand that the boy take back his thoughtless words, feeling Eleanor's fingers connect with his shoulder. The pressure was not near enough to hold him back should he have chosen to lunge forward, but it held him back all the same.

He remained glowering for as long as it took one of Anthony's friends – a crewmember aboard the _Bountiful_ – to approach their table. The man lingered a moment, eyeing the occupants, before continuing with his prior objective: extending a hand to the baker in an offer. Bowing gracefully, this sailor made his invitation with a flourish and a smirk. It wasn't the most well-mannered proposition he'd observed, but the man certainly had Mrs. Lovett's attention.

"Why, I think that would be divine," accepted Nellie with a hint of wry desperation. "Thank you."

Sweeney went cold.

His baker took the extended hand, allowing herself to be led away with a genuine smile for this newcomer. Her dress swished gently behind her, aiding to the image that she was merely floating across the floor with those delicate steps. The man in question centered an arm just above her waist and dared to lock his fingers into hers, conjuring up some charming comment that provoked her amusement. The small creases at the edges of her eyes showed as her lips widened and drew upwards, and the ruffian's gaze swept a bit lower as she laughed. Even in the absence of Mrs. Lovett's more revealing attire, the crewman's glance was highly improper.

Illness curled into his stomach and up his throat, hot and stinging. Mr. Todd swallowed a long drink of champagne to ward it off, but it remained. Fingering his hip where his razor might have been, he fisted the hand in the lack of his tool and felt his nails bite into his palm. The room was bathed in a particular shade of red for a moment as he stared down the procession, flashing quickly into and out of his vision. Desperately, he wanted to look away, but his eyes did not respond to being ripped away from the scene. His whole body was frozen and numb as he looked on, and unwilling observer. Each smile the man evoked, each step they took in unison made the barber vaguely aware of a tiny rip somewhere inside himself that tugged on his resolve.

So very much, he wanted to spit at their twirling feet and turn away. Why had his mouth gone so dry? Why couldn't he turn away?

She did not falter in her step, as she always had before – when it was near the end. The two danced in perfect sync, swaying across the room and blending into the rest of the faces and colors. It was his curse to be capable of picking them out, even when they were good and well all the way across the room. Johanna was there, too, somewhere among the mass; his eyes did not search for her.

Mrs. Lovett danced flawlessly and beautifully: something he could never expect of her when she danced with himself. Their history forfeited her grace; he would never be able to dance with her in such easy tandem and fluidity as this lowly sailor. The man had never met her, never loved her, never thought or done anything of or with her. And yet he was able to compete so closely with the man who had.

Sweeney felt a shout rise up and die mute in his chest, deafened by his own horror.

"Mr. Todd…?" asked a faint voice that sounded like Anthony.

Dragging in a short breath through his nose, he ignored the muffled question. How was it that it had gone so horrendously wrong? Somehow, he was losing the confidence of the one person he'd ever trusted. He was being beaten at his own game by a callow man who didn't even know how to play. Why?

"Sir…?" tried Anthony.

It was his own fault; he'd snapped at her. Told her she was unwanted. It was no wonder she was trying to remove herself. This was the exact effect he'd wanted it to have: exactly the direction he'd wanted it to go when he'd made the comment. Why hadn't he realized how foolish that was, until now? He'd also refused to offer the same dance that she'd accepted from the sailor, because of the crowd and the past. Neither mattered anymore.

These were decisions he'd made based solely on his own reasoning: decisions he shouldn't be regretting. And yet he was regretting them.

"Father…?" Anthony asked desperately.

Immediately, he looked up – away from Mrs. Lovett and her partner – and to the boy: Johanna's husband. His son.

The lad looked baffled, scrutinizing him with such uncertainty. He had stopped keeping vigil on Johanna as Sweeney did Mrs. Lovett, probably wondering why the barber could possibly be mad at a wedding. Mr. Todd could give the boy plenty of reason, but he did not. Instead, he swallowed.

"What?" he asked.

Slowly, with eyebrows furrowed, Anthony formed his response. "I'm sorry; I hope you don't mind me calling you that. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear; it's just…you look…troubled, Sir. Am I right?"

He wondered how long it had taken the sailor to figure that one out. Had Eleanor been there, she would have, as she always did, noticed the discrepancy in his normal behavior right off the bat. She read him like a book, broke down the walls he built with unimaginable ease; he marveled at it. Then again, had Eleanor been there, it would have meant that she wasn't off dancing with some foppish excuse for a seaman. Were they all like that?

Suddenly remembering that he'd been posed a question, he nodded. Anthony looked even more concerned – expectant, even – and it was from this that Sweeney gathered that his son wished for him to elaborate. Trying not to let his gaze slip back to the baker proved harder that he thought, and so he welcomed the thought of distraction – even if it meant talking to Johanna's husband. Inwardly, he searched for the right words. What did one say to describe something so ambiguous, especially when he didn't even know where it had stemmed from?

In the end, he tried flicking a glance in the direction of his baker in the hopes that the boy would catch on. Fortunately, his gaze did not stick, and he was not subject to that torture. Just as fortunate, Anthony proved quicker than he was credited for.

"Mrs. Lovett…?" the sailor murmured, following his indication. "Oh…that crewman, the dancing – it bothers you?"

Again, Sweeney nodded.

"Well, Sir…you could easily cut in." At the subsequent glare from this suggestion, the lad stumbled over his words to continue. "I do understand, that is, if you would rather not. I…haven't ever really danced all that much, myself. If it weren't for your daughter, I might have made a fool of myself."

Made a fool of himself? It was laughable. The barber had to bite back a response that Anthony managed to do that quire well on a regular basis.

"Boy," he said, "if I had two left feet then I would never have managed to live with her." Not to mention conduct an enterprise based on murder.

The sailor appeared abashed, if the way he dropped his eyes to his feet was any indication. "Oh," he said in a small voice. "Then, if you can dance…I don't understand."

"You wouldn't." The remark might have been a little cruel; the boy almost flinched. After an appropriate interval, he looked up again, curiously.

"Why sit here, Sir, when you could be…with _her_? I'm sure I can't possibly be…_that_ entertaining. Not when I can't even think straight. Everyone else is dancing."

Mr. Todd allowed for a small frown. "Exactly."

"I beg your pardon…?" Anthony gave him an assessing gaze, as if he had just come out with a heap of Chinese and expected him to be able to understand. Taking into consideration the boy's youth, he didn't blame him. He might have been a sailor, but he'd never had to endure being beaten and starved to the point he could barely stand, had never seen a man flogged so badly that he choked to death on his own vomit, or been stuck with a bullet in his back, floating out on the sea with nothing but a rotten log – waiting to die. Johanna had been his fairytale come true, and he'd never had to watch her – the woman he loved more than life itself – just _stand_ _there_ as he was dragged away to never see her again. It was no wonder the boy didn't understand his distaste for people.

Sweeney felt a bitter taste at the memory, the scars on his back burning to life. He sighed, looking at Anthony; the lad may have been a little thick, but that would most likely get better with age. Hardship did not necessarily make a man wise, he knew now: just resentful. This boy still had a chance to live: to live the life that Mr. Todd never had. And that was one thing that Anthony had that he did not – an untainted innocence and a fresh start. Perhaps that was what bothered the barber the most about this sailor: how someone so honestly immaculate could just breeze through and acquire his dreams with hardly a hint of difficulty, when it seemed like the whole world was set against Sweeney himself. Although he close to envied him for it, the barber also saw how easily dreams could be shattered, and how Anthony – who was so much alike to Benjamin – was just as breakable.

If he really thought about it, the boy was not bad. He'd done nothing wrong, only had a bit of ignorance. He _was_ learning, though, as the younger crowd tended to do – learning quicker than Benjamin had himself. Whereas before he'd seen the parallel as a scornful thing, Mr. Todd was beginning to see his own role to play in this. His time at Botany Bay was something that he would not wish upon anybody, not even a single soul; by finding a way to protect Anthony and his Johanna form the cruelties of the world and keep a watchful eye over them, he would be preventing this same tragedy.

This could also be a new chance for the barber, as well, if he thought about it. If he gave them the life he was neglected, helped them to achieve their happiness, then maybe his own happiness would come a little easier. Perhaps if he did this, then heaven would not look down upon him with such harsh judgment, as he suspected it had.

…or maybe he would just feel rotten all over again at seeing what he could never have, and Hell was going to cook him in eternal, fiery damnation when he got there: cook him just like all those people whose lives he'd ruined just like his own, just like he'd tried to do to Mrs. Lovett – the one woman who was worth even the small cents' worth he had to spare. He sighed.

"Sir," he sailor addressed him, a little more forceful than usual. "I suggest that if you would like to dance with her, then now is the time. She's out there now, but she won't be when she comes back. If you're going to prove anything, you won't do it by letting that man take it away from you."

"I don't have anything to prove, boy," he snapped back. He didn't, did he? If Eleanor wanted to go waltz with every fop in the city, it was her own business. He had no say in the matter, and he was sure she'd have more fun dancing with someone who wasn't always about to throw her into a burning oven. Just watching it made him feel physically ill.

"What's this, 'bout dancin'?" Tobi sauntered up behind them, leaning his elbows on the table and giving a giddy grin as Johanna came up a little more subtly next to Anthony and placed a hand on the back of his chair. "Where's Mum? I just danced for the firs' time ever – with a _girl_."

Countering the shop-boy's wistful look, Johanna's eyes followed him in chaste amusement. More boldly than she might have normally, she took her husband's hand and smiled. "Yes, but this girl is married."

His grin faltered. "Yeah – a pity, that. I'll get me a nice pretty, French girl someday, though. So's what're you two talkin' 'bout dancin' for, eh? Oh, 's that where Mum is?" He stood on tip-toes to look over the crowd, barely pin-pointing her somewhere across the room. Lowering himself back onto his heels, he whistled under his breath. "Whew – Mr. T, you better get yourself out there. She's right magnificent."

"That," Anthony muttered, "is what we were discussing. I told him the same thing, but Mr. Todd is adverse to the idea. I cannot see why." He looked dejectedly at Sweeney as he said this, quite close to sulking.

"You mean 'e doesn' want to?" They talked as if he was not sitting right in front of them, as if he wasn't listening. "Well, it doesn' s'prise me. Wot did you 'spect? 'E's the most 'eartless bugger from 'ere to who knows where."

Heartless…? A shot of cold fire made its way up his spine, and he held back a shiver. Was that what Mrs. Lovett thought – _heartless_? Was that what Tobias called staying up each night, making sure she could sleep? Was that what he called apologizing to someone for the first time in what felt like forever, feeling like he had just run all the way to the German border and back when he saw what she looked like today, and having his insides torn to tiny shreds each second that she was with that other man? He could have screamed, had he thought it would do any good.

Tobi turned on him. "Well, Mr. T?" he challenged. "Are you gonna take that? Either you wan' to dance with 'er or you don'."

He did. The barber stared mildly at the apprentice who stood nearly identical to his height sitting down. He wanted to. Sweeney didn't even consider the possibility that the kid was trying to test him – to bait him. He wanted to dance with her, wanted to show her that he wasn't going to hurt her this time, wanted to show that man how much better he could actually do it. Even if he couldn't.

It was insane, to let his dislike for people in large groups get in the way of that. Selfish, to have that get in the way of her having a good time. Abnegation, to let it starve himself of the same pleasure.

Without so much as another word, he stood. Three pairs of curious eyes watched his movements as he strode towards the swelling sea of bodies, weaving in and out of each other. When he got to its edge, something snagged his sleeve and turned him around. It was Johanna.

"Don't walk," she said, almost pleading. "I'll dance with you." It could have been a question. Something in the way she stood let him know that she was not going to take no for an answer. Those large, brown eyes: how could he refuse them?

He nodded, taking her hand as the crowd parted to let them through, and assumed a respectable distance between her and himself as they found a space that fit. At first, they were constricted by those around them until they could find a way to slip through. It was Johanna's idea to move _with_ the crowd – it seemed to work better than trying to wade through it. Slowly, step by agonizing step, they gained ground on Mrs. Lovett and her partner. Neither noticed their approach, successfully blending in, and he struggled to keep from glaring for fear that they might be given away by his tell-tale glowering.

"Please don't look so murderous," his daughter spoke quietly, shying away from him. He moved stiffly and awkwardly with her, bumping into her and shuffling feet. Not like Mrs. Lovett. She would not meet his gaze, which he immediately dropped to her feet. She bit her lip. "It's only a dance."

_Only_ a dance? He stole a look towards the baker, gritting his teeth at the way she looked so brilliant next to that fishmonger, determined to prove that this time was different. To prove that he was not heartless, that he could make her feel better than that worthless sailor. To prove…what? That he cared for her?

Was that what it was? Had he allowed himself to get so close to her, so vulnerable? No, he thought. Sweeney Todd did not _care_. He_ murdered_. He was _heartless_.

Yet here he was, out to prove that he was not heartless – that he cared. He _cared_. The thought was frightening, with how much hold she could have had on him, how much power over him. He had allowed himself to trust her before, and to share certain benefits. However unintentional it may have been, it had been a near-fatal mistake. Was he willing to take that chance – to give her another?

Whether he was willing or not, one glance at her from across the room told him that it was already too late.

Throwing her into the fire had not been "only a dance." Why should this be any different? He could translate her every move into a tangible feeling when they moved together, connect in a way he never had with anyone else in his life. They became one mind, one soul. He was ashamed at the satisfaction almost killing her had brought him that night, as if he'd wanted to kill off that part of himself. But one could not live with only half of one's soul – he knew that.

Losing Lucy had taken his righteousness, his smile, and his cozy life by the fireside. Losing Eleanor would surely cost him his life.

It was _never_ "only" a dance. This was not just a few rhythmic steps; this was redemption.

When they were within a few feet of Nellie and her counterpart, he started to step away from Johanna. He murmured his thanks, and saw her smile. She touched his arm as if to say "you're welcome," scrutinizing him carefully for another moment or so before she slipped away into the twirling dancers. The barber looked after her until she was gone, the feeling of pride and gratitude that filled his chest making his thanks seem puny in comparison.

And then he turned, and the feeling was gone, to be replaced by a sickness and his determination. Making his way up to the dancing couple, he saw the baker start to flounder. She gaped at him, slowing as her partner continued, and barely noticed it when she tripped. Sweeney ignored her for the present, grabbing the sailor's shoulder and jerking him around before he even had the chance to wonder what Mrs. Lovett was staring at.

"Out of my way," he spat.

The man stumbled, astounded. Nellie was watching him from the corner of his eye, a very peculiar expression adorning her face. "I-" the sailor halted himself. "I'm…I'm sorry?"

He tightened his hold on the man's shoulder, just for good measure, and felt him tense. "Get out of my way, I said. Your time's up."

The sailor seemed not to know what to say, between terrified and furious. "T-time…?" he parroted.

Sweeney chose not to reply. He'd had enough. With as much force as he had in him, he shoved the sailor, who went teetering into the pool of dancing people – half falling, half running away. In smooth triumph, Mr. Todd went to Mrs. Lovett and unceremoniously took her waist, jolting her closer. She practically fell into him, led only by his steps, still smiling. She was amused. He didn't understand it.

As she regained her composure, she fought for the lead – beaming up at him as if that silly expression was the only one she could make.

"Aren' you s'posed to ask me somethin' first, love?"

As her words registered, he frowned, trying to recall. Was there some trivial social nicety he had forgotten along the way, or something he'd planned on asking? She chuckled at him, as if his reaction tickled her, and he felt the laughter diffuse into his own chest. He did not let it escape, hardly knowing what to do with a feeling so foreign, and it filled his head with a sensation that was rather like flying. It was pleasurable, he thought, to feel like laughing again. It was something so old he'd nearly forgotten – forgotten that he liked it – and now he ached for it. At around the same time, he discovered what she meant, and he smirked wickedly.

"Oh, yes," the barber mused. He spun her, saw her intake of breath, felt her pulse race, and stopped her. She looked at him longingly, craving more. "May I have this dance?"

Her lips curled into a smile, and she let out a caged breath with a small noise at the back of her throat. "Oh, you…" She seemed unable to find an efficient description. "You can very well 'ave the 'ole world if you want it."

He was overcome, so close to that traitorous edge. But if he lost control now, it would not be murder. Just as breathless as Eleanor, he pulled her back into the dance, slower this time. They moved in perfect synchronization with those around them, connected to each other in every way possible. Feet tapping here, turning, touching, flitting the other way. Bodies spinning, heads dancing, breaths lost, eyes met. He could have lost himself in this trance, done it forever – and he nearly did.

She was so close, and showed no sign of suspicion. They twirled and stepped as one person and not two. Completely relaxed in his arms, she still had that silly smile. It was almost infectious.

Mr. Todd knew now that he hadn't had to prove a thing: that she already knew. And he loved her for it.

"But I don't want the world," he whispered back to her. A shudder ran through her, passing through him as well. He felt her very heartbeat through her hand in his and the scant distance between them, saw the warmth in her eyes. "I want_ you_." She nearly fell over, and he tightened his hold to keep her steady, slowing to bring a hand to her face and trace her lips with the tips of his fingers. "Because you _are_ the world."


	15. The Trail to End the Tale

A/N: Hi! This, ladies and gentlemen, is the final chapter (despite the misconception that the one before this one was the end...)! I promise I didn't die, it's just that school work decided to tackle me and lock me in a cage for awhile. But I finally found time to get this up, so yay! And I do know that it's full of errors. There's at least a couple paragraphs in here that are a little preposition happy, and I probably use pronouns way to much. . Anyway, I hope you like it, now that it's here. Thank you to everyone that has followed along with this crazy adventure, and thanks to all who take the time to review! Cheers! ~Ciao

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Her corset was an extravagant deal tighter than it should have been. Eleanor soon realized this, around the same time it hit her that the room around her was much too small and her dress was uncomfortably heavy. His words hit her like a suffocation, building a blockade in her throat and raising her temperature to a degree that kindled the flame in her cheeks. The life in her scratched for existence against these words that she'd longed so desperately to hear, animal instinct flooding her with a sense of dreaded panic.

It wasn't true. After such a length of time having wrought her soul to nothing but hope which was continually beaten into submission, she found that she did not want to believe any longer. Believing in the words he fed her would mean yet another weakening blow to her tattered optimism, without which she would surely lose her sense of reality. The animalistic drive for survival in her cringed from the hit before it was given, scrambling for a way out.

Mrs. Lovett halted the dance abruptly, standing inert in his arms. He was staring, but she could not bar to look to determine what his stare held. She could not allow herself to be led by this false hope as much as she needed to continue the existence of her previous withstanding hope.

Likewise, if by some stretch of the imagination he meant what he'd said, the baker could not let herself have her dreams sucked up from her in the place of the reality. It was a terrifying idea, and it disconcerted her. What if the reality she'd dreamt was not in congruence with the actuality, and the real terms of the situation were worse? Could she leave herself susceptible to such suffering, without a shred of hope left to spare after letting it go in place of reality?

She shook her head. There were too many uncertainties, and too many things that could go wrong.

Tearing away from him, she stumbled frantically backward into the bodies behind her and continued to shake her head in a firm and frenzied denial. She chanced one small glimpse before she made her escape, dragging her gaze to meet his in one chaste second. Even while she fled, his expression stayed with her fresh in her mind. His black eyes looked nakedly upon her, foremost blank with disbelief placed as if lost and uncertain where his next move might bring him.

Sweeney Todd had stared after her in open-mouthed pain and disbelief as she had turned away from him. The image flicked a humility into her, a growing shame making itself known in the pit of her stomach as she shouldered her way for the exit. The unmasked hurt had been true enough, even in her small glimpse; she wondered if she should turn back.

The baker swallowed her guilt and ploughed on, aiming with one great heave towards the doorway out; he would have his explanation in due time. She met Johanna on the way there, attempting to graze past the girl without calling attention to herself. Given the look she received, she couldn't have said that it worked all that well.

Once she had burst her way outside, breathing heavily from the exertion of pushing through such an impediment, the baker discovered that she hadn't the slightest notion as to where she was going. Her former preoccupation had been with getting _out_, but now that she was it was much less of a relief than she expected. Mrs. Lovett stopped walking and stood in one spot for her lack of direction, leaning her full weight against the nearest structure and drawing in a great breath with which to expel her prodigious qualms. She closed her eyes, but his image remained.

Eleanor abstained from weeping like some flighty girl of twenty years younger, and when she opened her eyes they were dry. Anger quickly flared in the pit of her stomach, sending quick flashes of it throughout the rest of her and immobilizing her, but this she also held at bay. It would not do to release her wrath – how _dare_ he – upon someone so combustible, for it would surely backfire.

She wondered at the absurdity of her storming out of the building, toying with the idea of going back and explaining herself. It would be the more sensible thing to do, she knew, but not the easiest. Her imagination worked around what he might do if she told him flat-out to take it back, and what he might say to her. Understandably, this was not an option, but her mind played out many different endings to the scenario with or without her discretion.

Before she could debate it further, she froze at the distinct sound of the door opening behind her. Remaining motionless, she put into fantasy that it was only one of the guests leaving early, but it was not so. She knew this, and she started when the door clicked noisily shut. Footsteps marked the approach of a person towards her; a victim to his countless hours of pacing, she would know those footsteps anywhere.

He came to her without touching her, standing farther back than necessary with the semblance of hesitancy. The barber seemed to shrink from her, his shoulders hunched and his arms hanging limply at his sides. His eyes drilled into her a cumulative sadness that she felt rightly accused of, but he made no accusations. He stood quiet and tense, stiff as if walking on eggshells. Even his silence was imposing.

"Go," she said to him, not trusting her voice to say a word more. After that, she couldn't bear to look at him; Eleanor turned her head, hoping he would listen to her for once.

A minute passed, and he still stood in the same exact position, neither moving nor speaking. He did not need to say anything; his eyes said it all. While she tried her darndest to ignore him, Sweeney remained in his place looking tremendously haunted and the slightest bit impatient.

"Mr. Todd," she tried again, pleading this time. She could hear the pitiful tremor that edged her voice, and wondered if he'd heard it too. "Just give me a few bloomin' moments; that's all I ask."

He didn't respond right away, but just kept on standing there. After a very long moment he turned and looked like he was about to heed her request, but then he only came closer. She nearly shoved him through the door herself, but after considering the results of her strength versus his she thought better of it. In any case, Eleanor hadn't expected much; the poor bloke never did listen much.

"Nellie," the barber said quietly, and she could have wilted on the spot. His voice was dry and rough, deep and quiet. He took a step towards her; her back was to the wall of the fixed structure behind her, and she was unable to escape. Those dark eyes never left hers, and try as she might she couldn't bring herself to look away; she was caught and suspended.

"Please," Nellie begged fearfully. Please just go away.

Another step. "Nellie." He said it as if in adulation. "You've been given too many moments alone already. A lifetime."

She shook her head, pressed against the cold wall so hard that her spine began to ache. He must have noticed the trepidation in the way she held herself in that position, for he halted his advance. For another eternity he pinned her there with his stare, and the baker did not give herself the room to process his words to her.

"You're afraid of me," he stated blankly, almost incredulously. His hard-set face did not soften, but the liquid of his animal eyes shone with a new guilt or shame. He then took a step back, releasing her from the confine of his heavy gaze and looking down.

It was all she could do to nod. The motion was as mechanical as it was forced, and she found herself that she was incapable of tearing away her eyes. His lower lip quivered shortly in such a small movement that she was not sure if she had seen it at all, and she was left to wonder what that meant.

Surely he would not hunt her down and kill those who threatened her or apologize to her if he meant to hurt her, but he gave her room to doubt. He'd rescued her and nearly died for her on their way through the sewers, only to tell her later that she meant little more than an accomplice and the occasional, pleasurable caprice. Actions speak louder than words, her mum had always told her, but Sweeney spoke so few that Eleanor was unsure of which held more volume.

"What do you want?" he asked sharply. A frown graced his lips, and his eyes burned at the dusty ground. The fingers of his right hand twitched for something that was not there, failing to feel the security of that assurance.

A few months ago, she might have answered him without hesitation. As the silence dragged on, Eleanor discovered that everything that had held true for her was now shrouded in confusion. Wasn't this what she wanted? Why couldn't she embrace his words as the happy ending that she had always wanted; what was holding her back?

"I don't know," she said in a small voice.

The minute she said it, it was like a sentence. He let her be without so much as one more word, and didn't speak to her once for the rest of the night. Soon after he retreated back to the company of Anthony and Johanna, she followed him. No one mentioned anything concerning the incident, and there was a cold sort of emptiness in the space between them that spoke of regression. He gave no notice of her attempts to catch his eye just as he was covertly deliberate in sitting decidedly away from her.

This was_ her_ monster.

The longer it drew out, the more certain she became that perhaps he actually meant what he'd said. In the weeks following, his presence was like a ghost. Days passed without much more communication than a few "fetch this"s or "do that"s on her part, and all she received in return were a number of grunts or nods. It was not unnatural of him, she realized; if it wasn't for her, they might never have a full conversation. With this in mind, she felt even more directly that this was her own fault.

Nellie was more confused than ever before in her life. Reading the barber was not nearly the simple task of reading ingredients from a recipe, and hardly as instructive. She asked him to give her space, and yet when she received it she found it to be more painful. He had barely spoken a word to her before, and yet she now got the sense that he was not saying enough.

By the second week, she was running herself down; a few minutes' worth of sleep could not constitute for a full day's worth of work, and with Johanna and Anthony off in search of some other edifice to live there was a lack of helping hands. Thankfully, the nightmares did not return, but Mr. Todd was quite adept at keeping awake, and because he did not sleep, then neither did she. The process was unintentional, and yet if it continued she felt that she might fall to the floor for exhaustion.

"Tobi, love, take these into the parlor, will you?" Indicating a small tray of tarts, she wiped a sleeve along her brow to mop up the moisture that beaded there and continued to force her strength into the dough in front of her. "And when you're done, would you please get up that spill over by the door? Me poor bones is ready to drop."

Eager as always, the apprentice scurried off to do as he was told. Once he was out of sight, she removed herself from the front she presented and sagged against the counter; she was forced to take small breaks in between kneading the dough in order to steady herself. The baker could already name more than a few ailments to her person aside from the pounding in her head, the most prominent being the kink in her neck and the tenderness in her lower back.

Sweeney took that time to meander into the room and look at her pointedly. He kept as much distance as possible, scanning over her fatigue with only relative interest. "Boy with cream and milk is outside," he stated nonchalantly. "Where's the money?"

Huffing a little at his inability to listen and also a little at the ache in her temple, she came around the counter and stopped short before the small table by the door. "I put it right 'ere just a moment ago." With growing interest, the baker turned in a circle and looked over the room in bewilderment. "Now, it was right 'ere on this table not six minutes ago. I wonder where it could've got to…" She sighed and started her return journey to cross the room. "I dunno, love. Ask Tobi."

He watched her plaintively as she crossed the room, and then as she caught her toe on a warped floorboard and stumbled. The baker hissed a curse and caught herself on the thankfully nearby countertop, wincing at the new pain that shot up her hip from ramming it too hard into the corner. When she continued on to roll out the dough into a soft oval and found him still observing her, she stopped.

"Was there somthin' else you needed, Mr. T?" She set the rolling pin down a bit too hard, and the resulting slam jolted her out of her petulance for a moment. The barber didn't even blink.

"The money," he said.

"Well, I don't 'ave the bleedin' money! Go ask Tobi if it's of such concern."

He remained silent after that, but he did not turn away. In defeat, Nellie decided that if she ignored him then he'd eventually get tired of watching and leave. She started back with the dough without a second glance towards the barber, but she could feel his eyes on her even as she turned her back to him. The continuous gaze was becoming a curious nuisance, and her fingers trembled around the edges of the rolling pin as she strained to keep on going.

About halfway between checking the oven and preparing the glaze, she snapped. "What?! What is it that you blasted want, already?! You must have _some_ reason for standin' there like a daft fool!"

His face remained blank. "You're overworking yourself."

"How do you figure?"

"Look at yourself."

She didn't have time for this. The first rush of the day was due to be in when she opened up her doors, and she was already running behind. Nellie did not have the time to be worrying about what she looked like, and she wasn't in the mood to be counseled on it by someone who could scare off customers with just a look. Finishing up the next batch to go in the oven, she kept her lips sealed tight and gave him a hard stare.

Without the money and with little say in the matter, Mr. Todd retreated back to his little piece of solitude back in a corner of the parlor away from the main crowd. There he stayed for most of the morning, carving his razor into the table and twisting it around in his fingers with a vehement sort of abandon for which she feared he might chop off one of his fingers. He came to help her at a point in the afternoon with the second swamping for lunch, loafing about the kitchen in a very unproductive manner and generally getting in the way until she meaningfully handed him a dish rag.

He was in the process of clumsily drying off a mug and her setting out a plate of tiny gâteaux when Tobi bounded into the room with a wild look, trying to catch his breath. "Mum…! There's a bloke up front what's startin' a ruck with some other fellow! It's gonna be a right big 'un if you don't 'urry!"

Immediately, she dropped what she was doing to peer at his frantic expression, glancing at Sweeney to see that he was also listening intently. "What for…?!" she questioned, but he only shook his head and shrugged imploringly, and she let out a soft moan. "Well, come we go find out what this 's all about."

Right after Tobias, the baker came out from the kitchen with Mr. Todd trailing behind her, still absently clutching the cloth in his steady hands. The sound of the muffled cacophony reached her ears right away, a chorus of hoarse shouts, loud talking, and thunderous footsteps. A crash soon followed. Quickening pace, Mrs. Lovett reached the scene and pushed her way through the crowd of mixed reactions.

Two gentlemen had dispatched themselves from the rest to try and hold down the couple of men in the center, one with his hands around the other's collar, but they did not aid the situation past adding to the noisome confusion. Nellie lunged towards the brawl, inserting herself between the irate couple and grabbing the sleeve of one.

"Alright, get on off outside!" she commanded. "Arrêtez-vous! Cor—this is a _pastry_ shop! Allez! Get your barmy selves out on the street!"

The man she had a hold of struck out an arm to push her off, and it hit her dead in the ribs. A pain flared in her gut, and now she held to his sleeve for her balance; her breath escaped her, and her head swam for another moment in bleak cloudiness before she could gather her wits again. She coughed to breathe and found her feet, pushing on the large man's chest to herd him out. Her assertions fell on deaf ears as he continued to struggle against her and the gentleman holding him in place, and another blow fell upon her head as he took her by the shoulders and hurled her backwards.

What he roared he roared in French, but she would not have understood it anyway with the jumble in her mind. She groaned at the numbness that started to spread through her, watching with a vision tinged by darkness as Sweeney strode swiftly up to the men. His face was set and stern, and he took them both by the neck with a deadly growl as he hauled them towards the doors. Faintly, she laughed at the contrast: how a man who was so small in comparison could throw those two hulking towers out on their knees after just glaring at them.

The next time she opened her eyes, it was to darkness. There were no windows in the downstairs, and only a very dim light entered the room via the gaping doorway to the staircase. Silence was on the dwelling, the kind only present in the creakings of the night and early morning, and there was a loneliness in this muteness that unsettled her. She attempted to sit up a little higher on the pillow propped up behind her, trying to remember how much time had passed, but her pillow stirred and breathed deeply.

She just barely caught herself from crying out, feeling the weight that encircled her constrict not as quilts but as arms, pulling her closer against his chest. Eleanor swiveled, glimpsing ribbons of raven hair than hung in the face of the barber as his chin dropped to her shoulder. It was hard to tell whether he was awake or not, and she took a moment to listen to his evenly punctuated breaths.

"Mr. T…?" she whispered, just to make sure. There was no answer.

Slowly, Mrs. Lovett became more aware of the throbbing in her head, and of the dryness that scratched her throat. She moved blindly to extricate herself from him, slipping from his limp arms with a pang of guilt that she justified by acknowledging that she would be straight back. The baker got about to the door, careful not to step on any splinters with her bare feet, before she was stopped.

"Where are you going?" His voice froze over her, tired and quiet with the weight of some great burden. A shot of panic seared up and died in her in that second, and she turned on the spot, though she could only distinguish his vague outline.

"I'm thirsty," she defended. She had the right to move about freely in her own home without feeling like she was doing something wrong. "I thought you were asleep, love."

There was a pause. "I was."

After that, she didn't know whether to go through with her original plan or to go back. In the end, she decided to walk to where he was on the mattress and join him again at his side. The springs protested mightily to the spot she chose, and Mr. Todd gathered the top quilt to wrap around her shoulders. She leaned back against the headboard, and the world was silent again.

"How long…?" she breathed.

"Two days. You were over-exerting yourself."

Out of shame, she did not speak; she had known this before, of course, but she had deliberately ignored it. It was just as he had said, and it would have been the perfect opportunity for him to rub this in. She was very thankful that he did not.

"And…Tobi? How's the shop gettin' on without me?"

"Well enough." He shifted beside her. "The boy works hard."

"Of course 'e does! 'E's nigh a natural. 'Bout time 'e found 'iself a job of 'is own, anyway. Shouldn' let 'im get caged up 'ere with an ol' woman like me." What she really wanted was to ask about _him_. Though she meant what she said, it was all talk. How had he come to be sitting up with her, and had he been doing this frequently? The question was at the forefront of her mind, but she could not speak it.

"You aren't an old woman." The sincerity of it was what made her breath hitch.

"Oh…? Then what am I, Sweeney Todd? …an old cockroach, perhaps?"

"No. You aren't old."

At this, she let out a loud laugh. She could feel him looking at her in the darkness, and she smiled at the misguided compliment. "Well, then I don't see what sort of arithmetic you were learned, because where I come from two and two adds up to four and no matter which way I'm countin' it, it still turns up the same way. You must be countin' in new math."

"I come from the same place as you. There isn't any math in it."

"Oh, posh. You just say that because you don't want to admit that you're old, yourself."

She could imagine the look on his face when he replied, "You want me to say you're old?"

Smilingly, she offered him a corner of the quilt he had ensconced her in which he refused at first. Being beyond his logic, she reasoned that he was only as cold as she was—and this entitled him to a corner of the blanket whether he wanted it or not. Hesitantly, Eleanor shuffled closer in order to bestow upon him the other half of the quilt.

"Well, it's not quite a lifelong fancy of mine, dear," she conceded, "but it's the truth."

He thought on this for a moment or so before making an answer, keeping a respectable distance from her even under the duvet. "Do you know how old the ocean is?"

"No…" She thought she could see where this was going. "I don't believe I do. Very old, I'm sure."

"Yes," he said bluntly. "Scores of years old, Eleanor."

"The sea isn't a person, love."

"That it isn't. The sea doesn't act old: neither do you. It's not age that makes you old."

She considered this; it did have some merit. Despite the fact that the ocean was not human, being juxtaposed with it made her feel comparatively young. She leaned into the barber so that their shoulders and thighs were touching.

"I s'pose you 'ave a point, there. And so 'ow old am I, then, Mr. T?"

He remained sitting stiffly upright. "However old you want to be."

Nellie rolled her eyes, knowing that he couldn't see her do it. The same dry tickle itched at her throat and the back of her tongue, but she ignored it. "But 'ow old do _you_ think I am?"

Again, he evaded her. "I think you're exactly as old as you believe you are."

Sighing, she touched his shoulder warmly, moving to get up. She took the duvet with her, dragging it along behind her on the floor as it was about her torso. He made no protest, but only looked after her in dull curiosity. When she explained again that she was thirsty, he rested his head back on the headboard and closed his eyes as if to finalize things.

They were nearly out of milk; it was the first thing she noticed on getting herself water. The problem was predictable, but easily remedied. She was only glad that it had not been so before, especially before closing. Lifting the liquid to her lips, she took a long draught of it and almost choked before she placed it into the sink. With exponentially less pain than a couple days before, the baker made her way tiredly back down the groaning steps.

When she reached the bed, his silhouette was no longer visible; he was gone. Only the area warm to her touch proved he had been there at all, and it also told her that he'd left just recently. She might have followed him, but Nellie was not fully recovered; exhaustion set into her limbs like an affliction, and she decided to save whatever discussion must be had until morning. Clumsily, she dragged herself under the quilts and sighed.

No matter what she wanted to be, she certainly _felt_ old.

It was of no significance that in the morning she woke three hours late, even with the fuss she made of it; the milk had mysteriously replenished itself, the pastries cooked themselves, and the counter dusted itself. When she looked to Tobi, he was exuberant to see her well, but he swore to her in bewilderment that he'd only swept out the front. At once she questioned him on whether he'd seen Anthony or Johanna, or if they had come in sometime during her reprieve, but the answer was negative.

She spent a total of four and a half minutes searching for Sweeney both upstairs and down, and gave up after he was nowhere within convenient sight. The shop was set to open soon, and the baker wasted no time in preparing the stock for the day. Absently, she noted that the floor had been scrubbed, and an overall neatness exuded from the area which had formerly been a homely mess. It was possible that these things had been done within the two days she had been out, but Mrs. Lovett was certain she knew a freshly cleaned kitchen when she saw one.

As the morning wore on, it became more and more apparent that the barber was indeed missing. Though Nellie had virtually no time to worry on it without a second to spare or a moment off of her feet, it came as a nagging disquiet at the back of her mind. When he wasn't seen nor heard of at all by noon, the fret slipped to the forefront. She greeted customers with a doubtful smile, and peered over her shoulder with increasing paranoia.

Tobias soon learned of the predicament, and he helped her immensely throughout the day by keeping an eye peeled as lookout. The solace he gave her was mostly empty; she would not hear of it until she saw Mr. Todd's scowling face in front of her.

Although she knew it was unreasonable, she started to think it might have been her fault. Had he simply wandered off into an inadvertently hard to find nook, or had he deliberately left? The question haunted her to frustration, and this she took out on her tools and desserts. Suppose her hesitance to his advance had driven him off, or he had gotten tired of waiting for an answer? She took to cleaning the already sparkling countertops, just to clear her mind of it.

If it was too late, then she had no one to blame but herself. The opportunity she had waited a lifetime to receive had stared her blatantly down in the face, and she had run from it like a frightened mouse. For her to doubt such words as he had spoken to her, words he'd surely had to work up quite the nerve to say and wouldn't likely ever say again after this, or find duplicity in his following after her like a lost pup was something she found hard to believe of herself.

Nothing Sweeney Todd did was without purpose. If she didn't know that by now, then she was a grand fool. For him to lead her in such an intimate dance in front of so many people, when he hated crowds most fiercely, it spoke volumes.

With a deafening sense of failure, Eleanor leaned against the counter and slipped her head into her floury hands. From the next room, there was a great cheer from a group of men that she had seen playing cards. In a sickening desperation, a physical illness rocked her, and she kneaded her fingers into her skull. How on earth had she let this happen?

She moaned miserably into her palms.

The clamor in the other room quickly morphed into faint grumblings for more cider. If there was at least one thing she could be sure of, it was that she sold the strongest cider for a good many blocks. Those that did not come for their sweet tooth did certainly come for her cider, so long as they weren't staking out a claim in mischief. At that particular moment, however, Mrs. Lovett did not feel like pouring more cider. She didn't have the heart to go out there and put on a smile, and her feet dragged just to cross the kitchen to the cupboard.

Lying delicately curled around the handle to the door was a small, white flower peeking mysteriously up at her.

For a moment, all she could do was look at it. The obvious questions ran through her mind first, followed by the wandering query on where on earth it had been found. It wasn't every day her favorite flower showed up behind her back and decided to play tricks on her. Carefully, she removed it from the handle and placed it just behind her ear by whim of some girlish fancy.

Eleanor might not have even thought it strange, might have even forgotten all about it, if it had happened only that once. As it was, she found three more within that same hour, all daisies of the same type: one hidden by the length of a tray, another showing up among the silverware, and the next she spied dangling from the bell of the door. It was most unnatural, and the mere hunt of it kept her mind more so on edge. The whole ordeal was quite curious; she questioned her good patrons whether they had seen someone doing anything with or near the door for too long, and not a single one could give her a straight answer. It was as if it was a ghost.

"Blimey!" she said at last to Tobi, nodding towards a flower precariously lodged into the lamp mounting the wall. "Give your Mum the pleasure of knowin' that she ain't missin' more 'n a few marbles. Do you see that blossom up there in the lamp, dear?"

Shooting both her and the daisy a less than reassuring look, he slowly nodded, and she sighed.

"My Lord, it's like I'm bein' 'aunted by _flowers_, now," she exclaimed. "There ain't much past that, I tell you, 'cept bedlam. Next, it'll be all sorts of things: tulips, lavender, and God forbid sunflowers. …'ere's yet another one! What's this at your collar, there? I don't s'pose you know 'ow it got there?"

Vigorously, he shook his head. "No! I didn' even see it 'till just now; but I do see it, honest! You ain't no sandwich short of a picnic; I been seein' 'em too. I see all the ones you find, but I ain't never seen who did it."

The look on his face was all she needed. Unfortunately, it wasn't very helpful about what she was going to do with the augmenting bouquet in the kitchen. She shrugged her shoulders at him and bit back a sigh, traipsing back to the counter and then to the cabinets in pursuit of a vase. Despite the covert way in which the flowers were delivered, she didn't want them to die and go to waste.

Eleanor kept her vase at the very back of the first shelf on the left cupboard, just behind the plates. She had always kept it there since the very day they moved in, and remembered placing it there specifically. The baker even remembered seeing it that very morning when she lifted out the first stock of plates. Why, then, was it not in its place?

In frustration, she shoved aside the other dishes in order to peer more closely at the empty spot; it was not as empty as she had imagined. There, in lieu of the small, glass vase was a perfect, white daisy, staring innocently up at her and mocking her. Almost in disbelief, she reached out to pick it up by its very stem and place it with its companions. Not for the first time that day, she was at a loss.

Obviously, the flowers were placing themselves extremely deliberately; or rather, the perpetrator knew her well. She shoved the thought away as quickly as it came. It was more likely for the local children to be playing tricks on her and to have been sneaking around in search of her vase than for _him_ to be anywhere near her. Rejection sent most men away with their tails between their legs, and she would not allow herself this hope. She had rejected him in the worst way possible; it was only coincidence that the flowers happened to be daisies.

Chewing on her bottom lip while she tried to think about what else might be in store and how she was going to retrieve her stolen vase, she paced the length of the kitchen and then stopped. In a certain amount of irritation, she decided that she would worry about it later. For the present, the baker had customers to deal with, and it was not fair to them to ignore her occupation in order to turn the place inside out looking for something she didn't need.

She no longer found the game to be all that amusing when she noticed that her rolling pin had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. The little daisy in its place was an ache to her problem, and she sighed extensively.

"Mum…?" Tobi came up at her side and tugged at her sleeve. He waited patiently while she stood rigid, looking up at her as if she might impart him with some grand secret.

"Go on," she muttered in response.

"There's a bloke outside—says 'e saw a man walk past 'im with…a rollin' pin up on 'is shoulder and a bunch of flowers."

"A…" She swallowed. "…man, you say?"

"That's right. Says 'e went up toward the river a little ways, or looked that way." He paused awhile, watching the change in her expression. A little apprehensively, he added, "You should go after 'im."

She considered. There was no denying it now; there was no man on this earth capable of sneaking around without catching her notice except Sweeney. If only to find out what the devil he thought he was doing, Mrs. Lovett was partial to taking Tobi's advice and going after him.

"You think so?" Nellie asked, still skeptical.

He nodded somberly. "Yes, Ma'am. I can handle the shop for a little while. You should 'urry, 'fore 'e gets too far."

In resignation, Eleanor shrugged. She allowed for a small smile, patting the boy at the center of his back. "I s'pose. …not like I can get much done without that pin. That bugger; 'e knew exactly what 'e was doing. Do take care, dear; I won't be gone long. Be back in a couple of shakes."

The tiny bell at the top of the door jingled consistently in its erratic tinkle as she stepped out into the street. An ever-present mist hung in the air, clogging her throat at her attempting to breathe through its stagnant thickness. A sense of anticipation mixed with the droplets, and when she breathed that in as well it shot an unsettling churning into her gut that she wasn't sure of its being pleasurable or miserable.

After stopping to try and quell the nervous excitement and the tremor it induced about her limbs, Mrs. Lovett continued on towards the river at a quicker pace than she'd started with. Dodging past the moving crowd and trailing after what she thought might have been Mr. Todd's general direction, the baker was eventually led to the water, and then to a bridge.

To the immediate right of the bridge there were steps leading down towards a small walkway alongside the river, and Eleanor was instantly struck by a strong premonition that this was where the barber had fled to. It was the same exact location as when they had escaped the insistent rain underneath its broad structure that arched its way over the lazy flow, joining each side of the bank in a pathway accessible to both scum and elite alike. The recognition sent another pang into her innards, and Nellie worked to catch her breath as she descended closer to the sparkling and polluted water. Directly underneath the beginning or end of the arc of the curvature over the narrow walkway there was cast a shadow contrasting to the stark sunlight overhead, and it was there, to that one small spot of retrospection, that Mrs. Lovett cast her steps.

It should have been suspected that she would find, mingling between the shade and the light introduced to the ground by the brightness hitting the blockade of the bridge, a single, perfect daisy not unlike the others she had received that day. The mere placement of it dispelled all thought of its accidental nature, where it was as plain as the light of day the calculated intention in its arrangement.

Carefully, looking about her and especially into the shadow's depths with a wary glance, she stooped to collect the little gift and held it aloft close at her chest. Together with this token she took a bold first step into the shadow directly under the bridge, seeing flawlessly in the slight dimness and yet seeing no one. Still, there penetrated into her a scrutiny that she could not pick out, a displaced and watchful gaze all at her back.

The baker walked all about in the space, her hope lessening with each footfall until she had at last swept the entire area perhaps three times. He was not here, and wherever he could actually be was as much a mystery to her as why he chose to play this little game with her. She sat against the wall in the wake of her search, having a deficit of both optimism and ideas.

Evidently, her pursuing him was not to her own good fortune or his carelessness, but all part of his little jest. She was not, in fact, the one in control, but the one being controlled. Unsure of whether or not this upset her, she settled to just sit and look out at the river: possibly in wait, or possibly in despondency.

"So 'ere I am, come all this way just to find out there ain't nothin' 'ere but a flower," she said to herself, not caring if anyone heard. "What in the bleedin' 'ell is that s'posed to tell me? 'Ere you come all this way, Eleanor, but don' 'spect nothin'—all I'm gonna give you is a bloody _flower_! And 'you should go after 'im,' 'e says! Well, I'll tell you just what I think of _that_!"

She thrust the flower into the water, and it fluttered down into the waves and washed away.

For a moment she only stared, huffing angrily at the spot where she had shoved her daisy and at the empty waves that winked back at her. And then she blinked as, from out of the concealment of the pillars supporting the bridge, there came not one, but a whole collection of flowers floating out to greet her. She watched a multitude of them go bubbling past, little white debris littering the water and spreading out as they went, before she gathered enough of her resolve to stand and race out of the dark shadow, mounting the steps in unearthly haste.

This, of course, was no coincidence.

It was to her uncertain relief that her eyes met his lone form standing adjacent to the side of the bridge, and it became apparent to her through his wavering shadow and the juxtaposition with the stark flower in his fingers that he existed not as a surreal apparition or a mere substance, but that he was a full reality played out before her. He did not slide among the things surrounding him as an invisible facet, nor did his eyes wander sightless and indifferent to the world. His feet held weight and met the ground solidly, the breeze touched his hair, and he moved with life. Being not removed, a color perceptible only as the retreat of death blossomed in his pallid physiognomy, and his sharp, hawk-like gaze flooded over her with a prickle of human scrutiny.

She took one small step forward, and the spell that had lasted to keep the Earth still broke. Those bodies and birds within distance proceeded to carry on with their lives, moving around and across the path she made for Todd and intercepting the view she kept of him.

Between the blurred moments that she crossed the expanse separating them his eyes never displaced themselves from hers. Mrs. Lovett stopped short before the man as she reached him, unsure of whether to smile or be angry. In the end, the smile won out when he held out the daisy and she took it.

"Are you 'appy," she asked, "now that I 'ave more daisies than I even 'ave room for, you silly man?"

He gave a timid quirk of the lips reminiscent of some old remembrance of humor, his dark gaze alighted upon her with subtle mirth.

"To relieve the gloom," he said.

It was after these words that she knew, even before he told her. As they clicked into place with her memories, the baker gave him the smile that she had been waiting to give him for over fifteen years. "You thefted my rollin' pin and dragged me all the way out 'ere on some wild goose chase just for some elaborate scheme to accent our _'ome decour_?"

Instead of recognizing her joking attempt, Mr. Todd's face darkened with sincerity. He came forward without touching her, quavering between hesitant decisions. At the angle he stood, the sunlight illuminated his white skin as something greater than real, furthering the image presented by the pleading desperation he betook her with.

"I've given you time," Sweeney informed her quietly. "Tell me your conclusion."

"My conclusion…? Frankly, love, I'm wonderin' why you're still 'ere."

His eyes narrowed. "You know why."

"Then say it."

"No."

Eleanor regarded him in utter confusion, wholly taken aback by the blatant refusal. Did he not feel towards her that passion of the soul that could be deemed something as tangible as the four-letter, one-syllable word 'love?' Had she somehow misjudged him? A secret fear struck her, having already dug deep into her and needing only to be prodded lightly to resume its throbbing. It was a years-old suspicion and ache that caused her feet to pull her backwards and her mouth to hand open, mounting insecurity and befuddlement leaving her almost bereft of words.

"Why not?" the baker finally asked, hardly capable of forcing out the breathless response.

His face morphed into a customary scowl, a frown so deep that it pained her to look at him. "I won't give you the same opportunity as I did before."

Here, after thinking back upon his meaning, guilt twisted itself serpent-like into her stomach in a tight coil that reverberated to her the mistake she had made. She had asked him to give her something that he could not until she proved herself worthy for it, which she certainly had not. Nellie knew the sentiment all too well, and might have laughed at the reverse situation.

Sweeney Todd was afraid, and his was a natural response to protect himself from the harm she might inflict.

"You need not worry yourself, love," she sighed. "I'm not one to disregard things so great when they are as truthful. It's likely the selfsame reason you aren't tellin' me why now as when I asked you to give me time, and now I've gone and made you the same way. Well, Mr. T, _I'm_ still 'ere, too, and if you ask yourself why I think you'll find that we aren't all that different after all."

Some of his frown dissipated, replaced by a blankness which she found frustratingly difficult to discern. "Then you love me."

"Always 'ave," she said evenly, knowing that his question was not whether she had, but if she did still. At the word "always," the lines in his expression disappeared. He canted towards her in such a way that permitted him to take one of her hands in his, and the skill in his fingers brushed over her knuckles with the same admiration he adorned his razors. The baker completed the awkward gesture herself at his hesitance, stepping into him and securing her arms around his neck. Likewise, he reciprocated with equal fervency.

As if for the first time, the words "I love you" were spoken by Todd's lips, and the richness in his tone sounded to her ears like incipiency. It may have been the only time such words would issue forth from the mouth of the barber, but she savored the present far greater than the rarity.

With the tremor set in her, Mrs. Lovett was sure that it had sent out a visible ripple into the body of the earth, and it would come as a surprise to her if the small, quaking wave was not felt as far off as little Fleet Street.


End file.
